The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair
by Nyx Underwood
Summary: RE-UPLOAD. A Chuck and Blair epic-in-progress. The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life's most intense fulfilment.
1. Chapter 1: Feeling Oblivion

**The Unbearable Lightness of Being Chuck and Blair**

A/N: Due to the remarkable response to my stories, I have decided to repost everything. I hope that you guys enjoy re-reading.

**Chapter One**: **Feeling Oblivion**

_Then there is the third category, the category of people who need to be constantly before the eyes of the person they love. Their situation is as dangerous as the situation of people in the first category. One day the eyes of their beloved will close, and the room will go dark. And finally there is the fourth category, the rarest, the category of people who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers._

Milan Kundera, _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_

_

* * *

_

There were so many exquisitely cruel ways to hurt someone, and Charles Bass had never balked at any of them. So when he tried to steal away from Blair Waldorf's bed he was as surprised as anyone that he felt compelled to write a note to her: a _mea culpa_ – a jumbled attempt to explain himself, where he had only ever left destruction in his wake. Even his father had been fearful of the cruelty in his son – and there was nothing that Bart Bass was scared off. In his darker moments, when the darkness played at the corner of his eyes and he blinked against it, Chuck had been certain that his father was terrified of the son he had created. What did it mean to Bart Bass's soul that he and his beloved wife (Chuck was starting to begrudge Lily of the title) had produced this unscrupulous, dark creature.

And here he was, leaving the scene of the crime, as usual. How many other beds had he stolen away from after he drenched the sheets in sweat and moaned promises of tomorrow in tonight's ear? Hundreds. Certainly.

Of course, this time was different. All things in the course of his friendship with Blair had been different. And even as he stole away from her bed, leaving her in white - alone - he felt a horror at the thought of her hating him. Those other girls must have hated him in the morning. They were two-dimensional to him. How could he be blamed for hurting an outline, a flat surface? Blair, though. Blair was three-dimensional before his eyes: she had a face, two hands, and pair of shoes that had made a permanent dent in the skin of his shin. And at times, when he held her or when he felt the weight of her pressing down on his hips, he fancied that she had four dimensions.

But, Chuck Bass never explained himself.

What had provoked him to write that note? He knew that if he had just left her there in that white dress, beautiful in her sleep, she would have hated him – and that would have freed him once and for all. His tie had been undone, on the verge of falling off entirely as he stood in her bedroom, staring down at her sleeping form, heart aching with a tenderness he couldn't articulate. All he could say he wrote in those three lines. And the meanness of the sentiment struck him more deeply than he expected. Written in three meagre lines, the leanness of his expression seemed a mockery to her – and he knew that she would be angry.

She would never know how much it cost him to write that he was sorry, to set her free, and to tell her to leave him alone. Although he really did mean all he had written; she did deserve better. And he was sorry. So, even though he knew that the note was not going to make him Thomas Paine's rival, the words were unfamiliar to him and the idea of the two-syllables of 'Sorry' fascinated him as his hand wrote them. While his hand darted across the paper, it had seemed that what he was writing was of deep importance, and had been written with agonising precision.

Of course, the result was nothing more than the thinnest sheet of paper that he had seen, and words that would undoubtedly be pinned to a dart-board by a furious Blair Waldorf.

But he _had _meant it: they had been each other's brief bypass, and it was time for her to move on.

As for Chuck, it was time for him to get completely wasted. To forget those words she had given him in a moment that terrified and moved him. Words, that he thought he could leave in that slumbering room. Free at last.

For a while he just sat in the limo, breathing through the pain in his chest and hearing those words that terrified him: "Because I love you," repeated over and over in his mind.

"Where to, Mr. Bass?"

"The airport soon enough. But we have a few stops to make. I have a date."

The driver eyed him through the rear-vision mirror. He felt for the kid, but was more than a little afraid of what he was capable of in this mood. Sometimes a shadow would pass over the boy's face and any sort of mischief would seem possible behind those eyes. But, he hazarded a question, sensing that Chuck was not in the mood to unleash revenge upon him. "A date?"

Chuck narrowed his eyes and stared out the window at the Waldorf's building. _Because I love you_. She had said those words as if they were magical, as if they were in a movie scene, and where four words could change everything. It was a joke, really, when he thought back to that point where his life split: Before Blair, After Blair. It was time that she stopped fooling herself; he had told her already that they couldn't work. Really, if he were being honest with himself, he would do anything to take back what had happened between them. She had been a cause of heartache since he had seen her dance on stage at Victrola. That first night and the ecstasy that followed. He had to stop these thoughts. His eyes fell on the driver, still waiting for his answer. "I have a date with the night."

"Very good, Mr. Bass."

"Mr. Bass was my father," Chuck growled.

"Very good, Mr. Charles."

Tonight he would drink. Tomorrow he would leave.

* * *

Somewhere in her unconscious mind, she had known that he would leave her. There was something inevitable about it. And even as her she shook her head, felt tears of frustration and hurt welling in her eyes and the burning at the back of her throat, she wondered how many times one person could make you cry. Surely there was a point at which you just became pathetic for holding on so hard to someone trying so desperately to rid himself of you. And she was Blair Waldorf, not some pathetic girl who couldn't get the message when it was being delivered loud and clear.

Only one thought kept her from burning the letter and crawling into her bed. She knew Chuck, and knew that it would have been easier to simply walk away with no explanation. And so it was without even thinking that she found herself walking out of her quiet, sleeping house, still dressed in her white bridesmaid finery. Once more, she vowed. She would give him one more chance to let her help him.

She knew him better than anyone else in the world. She knew that as much as he was capable of wantonly destroying another human being, it was no more than he would eagerly do to himself. He was cruel, but any outward cruelty could be turned inward in an instant. If he was this intent on destroying himself, she was going to have to stand between him and his baser instincts. She was going to have to make a sacrifice.

It terrified her the lengths she would go to for a loved one that she wasn't even sure that she _liked_.

"It's late to be out, miss," the taxi driver commented.

She fixed him with a withering glare. "It's just getting later, the more you talk. So drive."

The moment she had said those three words, eight letters to him something inside of her had grown wild, cornered and trampled. She could not let him slip out of her life with just three lines. No matter what they said, the only words that mattered had been written all over his face when she walked into her bedroom to find him sitting on her bed. If he didn't love her, why was he drawn to her room? If he didn't love her, why did he lean against her so desperately, gasping slightly, but not allowing himself to cry?

The Palace loomed threateningly in the 2 a.m. darkness. Threatening, because knowing Chuck he had already collected a posse of women to perform unspeakable acts upon. Who knew what she might find when she walked into that suite of his? And, more pressingly, who knew how many more times she could watch him do these things to her, to himself. For a moment, Blair paused, considered turning around and returning to the wide bed that he had left. But that fierce, wild thing in her chest wouldn't let her walk away.

When she knocked on the door of his suite she could see a dim light shining under the door. She knew that they would have called him when she entered the elevator. He was definitely there. But he wasn't answering. She tentatively reached out to the doorknob, only to find it unlocked. Bracing herself, she walked in to find – nothing. But there in the centre of the room was an open suitcase, with clothes shoved uncharacteristically carelessly into it. Running away, she figured. Typical.

There was only one place that Chuck would go if he hadn't returned to his suite, even if he had sold it to help the Archibalds.

* * *

The burlesque house, Victrola, was doing excellent business, even at this late hour. Even through her distress, she couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the loud music, the escapism of this beautiful place. It was so typically Chuck – beautiful, debauched, magical. Sometimes Blair thought that he had been born in the wrong era. It seemed as if he had been touched with a light with more force than the rest of his generation: he was striking, impossible to look away from.

Or perhaps light was the wrong analogy for one so preoccupied with darkness.

He was sitting in his usual spot – on a couch directly in front of the women gyrating on stage. She felt a small smile pull at her face when she remembered the night she had gotten up on stage to dance for him. That was the thrilling Chuck Bass pull. He could pull the devil out of anyone. Or at least, that _had_ been the Chuck Bass pull. It was still too early to see what was left of him.

His legs were stretched straight out in front of him, and he had a woman on either side of him. To all the world, he would have looked like a satisfied, if wrung-out customer. But Blair saw something else, his eyes were unfocused, his hand too tight on that scotch in his hand, and his leg was not bouncing in time to the music.

As she walked towards him, she felt the lights burn themselves onto her skin, and once more she felt that thrill of standing in front of a crowded room in her negligee. And Chuck most of all. That look on his face – that was what had made her kiss him that first time. At a moment when she had doubted herself completely, when the combined force of Nate and her own mother had conspired to make her feel utterly worthless, the look on his face had struck her in the centre of the chest. It was desire. She was desirable. And Blair had needed so much to feel desired.

His eyes settled on her long before he acknowledged her presence. Even now, after all that had passed between them, his eyes still devoured her. She could feel the lights dancing on her.

"Chuck," she said simply.

"I told you to leave me alone." His voice was harsh, but flat, unaffected. A burst of cold air that turns the cheeks pink.

"I'm not your puppy," she said, trying for bravado, but her voice coming out more waveringly than she would have liked. The women on either side of Chuck had their hands on his shoulders, his legs. She couldn't help the stab of jealousy; she felt slightly less beautiful, less desirable every time she saw him with another woman. He probably had no idea that the sight of him lecherously groping another woman did not make her hate him; it made her hate the sight of herself. It made her hate those small things that must be missing if he needed another. It was the same feeling she had been struck with when she found out about Nate's infidelity.

But these things were all passed. Presently, Chuck stared at the glass in his hand. Calculating. She could see it in the line of his jaw. He was avoiding her eyes. "More of a bitch, than a puppy, Waldorf."

The sluts on the couch tittered with laughter.

"I went to your suite. It was open. I saw your suitcase." He offered no reaction. "Running away, are you, Bass?" She walked to his chair, challenging him with her eyes. He looked her up and down – and she had never felt so exposed. She didn't think he was even aware that he had wriggled slightly away from the women fawning on him.

He stood up, glass in hand. But with his free hand, he stroked one of the scantily clad women's chins. "Excuse me ladies. Miss Waldorf and I have some business to attend to."

He didn't speak to her, just walked towards the back of the stage, with a sense of entitlement so great that she doubted even those unaware of his financial investment would have stopped him. He led her into a dark, slightly dusty dressing room, which was apparently unused. It was quieter back here. He closed the door. Lining the point where the wall met the ceiling, were thirty or so masks – the classic Venetian, the gaping maw of a wild animal, the demure mask of a costume party. At any instant it seemed as if they may step off the wall and settle on the faces of glamorous historical figures. Only now, the slept, waiting for an elegant occasion. It was magical, really.

But the spell was broken when sat down, pulled out a bag of cocaine, and spread it out on the table in front of him. She could hear the music throbbing outside, but for the time being they were completely alone.

Blair wrinkled her nose. "If you think I came here to watch you get loaded…"

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "If you're here for a farewell fuck, don't worry – the blow won't effect my performance."

"Don't be disgusting."

He ignored her and continued fussing over his coke. "Of course some of the girls might like to get a performance review later, so if you would settle for flying solo, I'd be happy to give you a hand, if you need it. Got to preserve at least some of my bodily fluids."

"Stop it, Chuck," she said softly.

"Do you need me to go over it again? You are not my girlfriend."

Blair grabbed the hand that was dividing his blow into thin lines. She saw something in his face – something that gave her hope. He couldn't pull his hand away, and almost unwillingly turned his palm up to meet hers. But, only a few seconds elapsed before he regained control over himself.

"I want you to leave."

She cocked her head. "You're lying."

He looked into her eyes for the first time since they'd entered this dressing room. His jaw twitched. He tried to hide his emotion by having another sip of his drink. _Because, I love you_.

Suddenly, he stood up, looking down at her with contempt in his eyes – the emotion from before all gone. She took a step back, before reminding herself that this was Chuck. She didn't have to be scared of Chuck. But his voice had none of the warmth he usually reserved for her. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm looking for you."

He dropped his glass on the table, where it shook with the impact. Blair flinched slightly. He stood as close as he could without touching her, his face almost next to hers. "You're not my girlfriend. You're nothing to me. So why don't you just fuck off?"

He said it so gently. She desperately fought against the tears that threatened to fall down her cheeks. It was pointless hiding it. When, he saw that she was on the verge of tears, he pulled back angrily.

"Leave," he ordered, avoiding her eyes.

"No," she said quietly, gritting her teeth.

"_Leave_," he spat at her, grabbing her arms and shaking her until the tears spilled onto her cheeks. She looked into his eyes. The pupils were too contracted for the darkness of the room, and his usually beautiful face was creased and furious. This was a mistake, she realized. But, even as he spat angrily at her, shaking her hard, she couldn't help it.

"I'm staying," she said shakily. "Because I love you."

Those words again. He found that suddenly he wasn't shaking her, he was clutching onto her. Blair couldn't look into his eyes, because his head was slightly bowed.

_Finally, _she thought_, I'm getting through to him._

But when he did look up, his hands were still tight enough on her upper arms to hurt slightly. He pulled back and looked her up and down in the dark room, in her white dress.

"Blair," he said quietly. Not quite tenderly, but less cold than before. Her heart lifted for an instant, convinced that he was going to come with her – or even (she barely dared thinking this), say those words to her.

"Chuck?"

"Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck," he murmured, running his drunken fingers through her hair. His eyes were rimmed with darkness, hooded, but still glittering in the darkness of the dusty room. "Say it. Say it again."

His breath was on her face.

"Say what?"

His hands kept readjusting her curls. "Tell me – say it, again."

She caught his hand. "I love you."

It was as if her words had been a starting gun. He pushed her against the mirror, lifting her onto the make-up table – not commenting on the sound of her back impacting painfully against the side of it. He was kissing her harshly, desperately. She could barely catch breath.

"Chuck, wait." But the feeling of his hands on her were electric. She felt like she was being pulled away by a strong tide.

"I can't wait," he murmured desperately, pulling her dress down at the neckline, ripping it at the shoulders. It wasn't that she didn't want him – if anything, she had been longing to feel those hands on her since they had last danced together at the Snowflake Ball. But, in this moment, it felt wrong – something about him was not right.

"Chuck, stop it," she started pulling against him. "Not like this."

"I need you," he growled, pushing her down on the table, her dress torn. He kissed her again, and in spite of herself, she kissed him back. But when she felt his hands push her skirts up, she started skirting away from him. She couldn't be with him when he was like this.

"Come on – let's go, Chuck. Come back to my house."

"I'm not coming with you," he whispered, climbing onto the table, pinning her down with the weight of his body.

"I need you to talk to me. Please – Chuck stop. _Stop_. _Chuck talk to me_."

To her surprise she heard herself shouting at him to stop – to talk to her. But he ignored her pleas, avoiding her eyes, pushing her skirts up and throwing her underwear away. Maybe this was all she could give him. Maybe this was the only way to make him better.

Without warning, he stopped what he was doing. Propped up on his elbows, he stopped what he was doing - ceased moving entirely. For a while he couldn't look at her.

Even in this state, he waited for her consent. The things he chose to care about. So when he finally looked in her eyes, guiltily, she nodded slightly. It was all he needed – he entered her fast, before she was ready. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Chuck – you're hurting me."

She suddenly felt very distant from this horrible scene. This couldn't be Chuck, pinning her arms above her head, thrusting hard and painfully into her. She heard herself saying his name, in a blur of pain and pleasure, but his eyes were clenched shut, tears seeping out at the corners.

And then it was over.

He collapsed on top of her, knocking the air from her lungs. She felt tears on her cheeks – or maybe they were his tears. Never in her life had she ever felt so used, feeling worse because someone she loved so intensely had treated her like a dirty magazine. But now she was trapped under his body, wanting nothing more than to run from the room, but also still wanting to reach him. Idly, she noticed that he had rolled off of her, and was zipping his pants, sitting up. She could only see his back; his knees were clutched close to his chest. His hands covered his eyes.

She adjusted her torn dress as much as she could. Perhaps this was a dream, she thought, still feeling distant from the scene. One of her shoes had fallen off. The tears were involuntarily falling from her eyes. There was nothing left to do but to leave the room.

"Blair," he whispered, still hiding his face. "Can you ever forgive me for the way I treat you?"

She paused, facing the door. Could she ever forgive him? How weak had this love thing made her?

"Yes, I can forgive you," she said quietly.

"Why?"

She didn't turn around. And he still faced the other wall.

"Because I love you."

Chuck was silent for a long moment. "I think it would be best if you stayed the hell away from me." She closed her eyes as he kept talking. "I will never love you. I will never love anyone."

There. If there was one thing that would stop her dead at the brink of the cliff that he had teetered off the side of, it was that. The hard truth: one that she had known already. He was incapable of loving her back. And a one-sided love was destined to become a resentment – poisoned until it is nothing in particular. So, with a tearful resignation, she said what she imagined would be the last words that she would say to his face. "Goodbye Chuck."

After she left the room to the music and lights of the burlesque hall, she closed the door behind her. So she never heard the sound of glass shattering as Chuck punched the mirror that stared at him accusingly.


	2. Chapter 2: Your ExLover Is Dead

A/N: Re-uploading is such a pain! But here is Chapter Two…

**Chapter Two:**** Your Ex-Lover is Dead**

"_If you're going through hell, keep going"_

_Winston Churchill

* * *

_

Surely Serena's hair shouldn't shine so brightly, and fall so lightly over her shoulders at a time when Blair felt so wretched. She was tanned and stunning after her trip to South America, and just the sight of her made Blair feel slightly queasy. Meeting Serena for brunch was a big deal. Blair had always dreamed widely and intensely about the most outlandish possibilities, but now it seemed like her world had been reduced to her bedroom and her thoughts reduced to Chuck. Something was wrong with her very walk; she'd moved slowly up the long avenues of this city she'd loved.

She felt too aware of herself, too aware of the quiet squeaking of one of her shoes, worried that her perfume was too floral, and wanting to turn into a tiny winged creature and pass completely unseen.

It took all her energy to sit down, order coffee, and listen to Serena's effusive accounts of her trip to Buenos Aires. A small, disloyal part of her hated Serena a little bit. A few years ago, the possibility of Serena enjoying not one but two successful relationships was laughable. It had be she, Blair, who'd had Nate, who'd worked so hard to be a good girlfriend. Then she had to fall for the Upper East Side Prince of Darkness, and now Blair felt herself turn brittle, distant – a shadow of her former self. So seeing how Serena had blossomed over the last two years hurt her in a primordial place, where the less generous, and most honest feelings lay.

And then she had to bring up Chuck.

"So you haven't heard from him?"

"Nothing," Blair said simply.

"And you have no idea where he went?"

Blair rubbed her temple. "None."

"My mom is so worried about him. Eric too." Serena paused, as if performing some internal calculation. "And I suppose I'm worried about him."

"Well I have no further information since you last asked me."

Serena viewed her friend in concern. Blair was too pale, and seemed even skinnier than usual. In all the time she had been overseas with Aaron, she had received only two messages from Blair, and both had been one line emails, saying that she was fine, but that she had no idea where Chuck was. Left unstated, but still totally clear in the emails, was the request that Serena mind her own business and leave her alone. There was one essential thing about Serena, that hadn't even changed during her heady drug-hazed days: she didn't give up on people. That had been the only that she and Blair had remained friends during her dalliances with Georgina Sparks. She had given her friend space, she had enjoyed the company of – this had just occurred to her: Blair's step-brother – but part of her worried about her best friend.

Even though Blair was too thin, definitely too thin, and pale, she still looked perfectly put together in her Armani Collezioni dress shirt and with her hair in curls, held back by one of her trademark headbands. But there was something in her eyes, a sort of wide, desperation that broke Serena's heart. Now that Cyrus and Eleanor had left for their honeymoon, she worried about Blair being on her own. It was that strong will of Blair's that prevented her from accepting her feelings, from facing those parts of herself that didn't fit into the perfect image that Blair strove towards each day. Serena would weasel it out of her, and if Blair shattered, she would piece her back together. She owed Blair more than one.

"I heard that Nate went to find him? Has he been in contact with you?"

"Why would Nate talk to me about Chuck? There's nothing between us. Chuck's uncle sent him off to do his dirty work, so I _suppose_ Nate will tell him about whatever it is Chuck's getting up to. And believe it or not, I'm not on Jack Bass's speed-dial."

Serena frowned at her outburst. "Maybe if you call Nate, he'll let you know - "

Blair's eyes snapped onto Serena's face, her hands white knuckled on the table. "Can we drop this? Chuck made it very clear that he doesn't want my help. If he wants to die in a pool of his own vomit, then that's his business. Whatever it _was_, it's over. So, stop acting like I'm an abandoned girlfriend. He made his choice."

Serena blinked. She knew that when Blair got defensive she had hit a sore spot.

"You really expect me to believe that you are over Chuck?"

"There's nothing to get over," Blair said stubbornly.

"B…what happened between the two of you?"

For an instant something flashed in Blair's eyes. It was a combination of regret, sadness and pain. "Nothing. He drove away from the wake. That's the last I saw of him."

"That's all?"

For weeks Blair had wanted to talk to her best friend about what had really happened. The words and acts that haunted her almost as much as the crushing ache in her chest. It was meant to get easier with time, but it wasn't getting better. Maybe if she could just talk to someone…but no. Blair Waldorf was moving on.

"That's all, S. I don't want to hear about Chuck Bass."

At that moment their phones buzzed.

**Spotted: Queen B and her BFF enjoying brunch. About time B returned to hold court. Could it be that our favourite Upper East Side princess is mourning the passing of more than one Bass? - xoxo, Gossip Girl.**

Serena smiled at her friend. "That's going to be kind of difficult in this city."

But Blair didn't return her smile. "I don't care what Gossip Grinch has to say. I'm moving on. Starting with tonight."

"What's happening tonight?"

Blair smiled insincerely. "I have a date."

Serena gaped at her. "With who?"

Blair glared at her forcefully. "With you. We are going out – and Picasso can stay home and post his ear to someone."

"Um, B – van Gogh cut his ear off…"

"I know that, you know that, but a guy with that much product in his hair doesn't often settle down with a thick book."

Serena ignored the slight against Aaron, glad that Blair was showing some of her old feistiness. Although she could not repress her sense that Blair would not be quite herself until Chuck returned to her. It was a silly thought – over-stated, she thought. But as she watched Blair too often stare into the middle distance, Serena couldn't help but think that maybe it was true.

* * *

Chuck had always had a dark streak, and Nate knew this better than anyone. But the images of the last week made his head spin.

Nate had been best friends with Chuck for so many years that when Jack Bass had told him where he was staying in Bangkok, Nate had known that he owed it to his friend to go and check up on him. He had seen Chuck out of control before. He had seen Chuck vomiting into a toilet after too much to drink. He had seen Chuck surrounded by drugs and strippers, starting fights. He had seen Chuck in dark moods, set on destroying his latest victim. But in all these years, he had never seen Chuck like this.

The younger Bass had chosen to stay under the radar. He hadn't booked into any of the expensive hotels that Bart had invested in. Instead, Chuck had rented himself a serviced house on the outskirts of Bangkok, where he could enjoy all the debauched delights of Thailand without having to pass through hotel security. He wanted his privacy, he told the staff that cooked him meals, cleaned up after his late night parties, and generally cast a blind eye over the drugs, sex, and depression that filled the house.

Nate hadn't let his friend know that he was coming. He had a suspicion that Chuck might bolt if he knew. So he caught a dusty bus from the airport across town, until he was completely turned around and disorientated – finding himself suddenly in the Samutprakan province with no idea where to go. Strangers in the streets and down alleys shouted out to him. "Hey handsome – pretty lady, special price."

He could see why Chuck liked this place. And as the heat seared his skin and the pungent smells entered his nose – and everywhere the sight and sound of sex, Nate imagined that he had actually entered Chuck's mind. Thoughts like that can ensnare, so Nate did what Nate always did in difficult situations: he grit his teeth, and got on with it.

When he finally found the address he had scrawled on a piece of paper, at around sundown, he was surprised by the presence of a huge, threatening bodyguard standing at the door. The man had a large scar crossing his eye and travelling down his marked face to his mouth.

"I'm here to see Chuck Bass."

"No visitors."

Nate straightened his shoulders and did something he rarely did: turned his nose up and affected the Upper East Side attitude he so hated in his mother's friends. "My name is Nathaniel Archibald, and I strongly recommend you open this door."

After a brief staring contest the man shrugged, walked into the house, and slammed the door in Nate's face. _Well that didn't work. _He started looking around for a way to break in – even getting so far as pulling himself on top of a pot plant – when suddenly the front door opened.

"Mr. Chuck will see you now."

When Nate walked in, the house was dark. "Chuck? Chuck are you here?"

He put his bag down and walked into the darkened sitting room, which would have had a fantastic view of the ocean if the view hadn't been blackened out by thick drapes. For a minute he thought the room was empty, until he heard the telltale clink of ice in a drink.

Chuck was sprawled on the couch, with a drink in hand. His eyes were unfocussed and his hair was brushing the collar of the open shirt he had on. Nate could see that his friend had lost weight, and basically looked like hell. When he spoke, his voice was low and husky, as if he had been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day for the last month. Or maybe he'd been doing something heavier than tobacco, if the drugs that littered the table were any indication. His eyes barely opened.

"Nathaniel," he said simply.

"Chuck," Nate nodded.

As Nate watched, a uniformed woman entered holding a carefully carved pipe, bright red, when Chuck accepted without comment. He gestured at Nate, who quickly found himself with a drink in hand. Chuck dropped his father's silver lighter three times before finally managing to light his pipe.

"Can I interest you in a hit?"

Nate shook his head and sat down opposite the ravaged creature on the couch. "How much of that have you done?"

"Not enough to be in the mood for a Nate Archibald spanking."

There didn't seem to be anything to say after that. Nate looked around the room again. It really was a great place, but there was something in the atmosphere – a toxicity that was impossible to hide. It was Chuck, Nate knew. He could feel Chuck's darkness from across the room.

"Who's the beefcake out the front?"

Chuck finished inhaling, still half-sitting and half-lying on the couch. "I had a few problems with the authorities. Sam encourages a certain degree of restraint in the law enforcement in these parts."

Nate stood up, walked to the window and opened the blinds, making Chuck groan. Even with the curtains open, Chuck sat in a dark cocoon. Nate was more than a little scared of him. "What are you doing, man?"

"I thought it was obvious," Chuck muttered flatly. "I'm trying to get loaded. Then I'm going out. And if all goes to plan I will be back here with some of Bangkok's finest ass by sunrise."

"Sounds like you're really living the life," Nate said sarcastically.

Chuck shrugged. "It works for me."

"Yeah I can see that."

"Why did you come here, Nathaniel? Tell Blair that you're her knight in shining armour, not mine."

Nate raised an eyebrow. "Blair? Blair didn't send me."

There was a slight twitch in Chuck's jaw. "Good."

Seeing an opening, Nate walked back towards his friend. "Would it have made a difference if she had sent me?"

Chuck closed his eyes, throwing his pipe onto the table. "I've forgotten about her. And I would hope that she's forgotten about me."

"For someone who's forgotten about his old life, you keep your phone awfully close," Nate commented wryly.

"I'm waiting for a call, Nathaniel. And the Sherlock Holmes act would be a lot more effective if you had a pipe in hand."

"Well your pipe seems to be doing wonders for your wit." Nate knew when his friend was B. him. "Anything on Gossip Girl about Blair?"

"Nothing. Just a brunch." Chuck realized he'd fallen for the trap and sat up suddenly. "Why all this talk about Blair? Did you come here for my approval to tap that? I think we're a bit beyond seeking permission, Nathaniel. But, if you want me to pass you a baton then I'd be happy to take part in the ceremony."

"You don't fool me Chuck," Nate said quietly.

"Congratulations," he murmured, glancing at his watch. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have plans this evening."

"I'll come with you," Nate said suddenly.

Chuck shrugged. "As you wish. Though change out of those clothes. Hobo chic may work for Mary-Kate Olsen, but it does nothing for Nate Archibald."

Nate smiled at even this weak joke. "I'll try not to embarrass you."

The nights passed in a blur of lights, dancing and women. There was Nate sitting at the bar of Tunnel, Tapas, or less famous dive joints where Chuck had a woman or a dealer, always watching his friend. There had been a time where Nate would have shrugged and said that Chuck was just being Chuck. Partying was second nature to the young Bass. But something was different now. He wouldn't stop – he couldn't stop. Nate would see him across the room, taking shot after shot, with a girl hanging off his arm, staring straight ahead. Sometimes, Chuck would lose his balance and lean against the marble wall of a famous bar, and in those moments of vulnerability, Nate would see him close his eyes, cover them with his hands, and look as if there was something clawing at his brain.

In those moments, inside Chuck Bass, the images were gruesome. He'd see Bart's body interned under ground, decomposing. He'd imagine Lily and Rufus laughing, touching each other on his grave. He would think of his cruel words to Blair, he'd imagine her body being violated by other men: by Nate, by Marcus, by his father. Then his mind would pass to that final, deepest pain, a secret uncovered just a month ago – one that he hadn't told anyone and could scarcely admit to himself. And the need to take a deep breath would be hampered by the cigarette smoke until the room would swim in his vision and he would want to feel the burn of another drink down his throat just to remind him of where he stood. To convince himself that he was Chuck Bass, in Thailand on planet Earth, with pulse racing. But all he could see was the image of himself, under the ground, next to Bart Bass as stiff and unmoving as a corpse.

But those moments would pass and he would buy another drink, smoke another joint, or snort another line. Nate would wake up at dawn, to find two women, or more, walk out of Chuck's room. Nate had unofficially moved in. One night, he was sitting in the darkness of the living room, listening for a sign of life. An Australian woman's voice, angry, raised.

Chuck's eyes were narrowed cruelly on her face when the door opened. He was wrapped in a sheet below the waist, and she had on only her underwear. "What do you expect?"

"I expect you not to say another woman's name while fucking me."

He tilted his head. "Well I sure as hell don't know your name. I figured it was the next best thing."

"You're an asshole," she spat, scooping her clothes into her hands.

"And you're a slut."

As she walked away, she spoke over her shoulder. "I don't want to know what this _Blair_ girl ever did to deserve a prick like you."

Chuck crossed his arms. "Neither do I," he said softly. He didn't emerge from his room for the entire day.

When they weren't out on the town, Chuck was monosyllabic, hung over, wrung-out. He and Nate barely spoke, and when he did, it was incomprehensible. They would be sitting in a private booth at a bar, and Chuck would be staring straight head, experiencing the blood running through his veins.

"I'm upside down," he'd say suddenly.

"What are you talking about?"

Chuck traced a shape in the air. "I'm upside down and all of you are walking around my head."

"You're drunk and loaded, Chuck."

"There's dirt above my head."

"Okay, whatever you say." Chuck didn't speak much after that.

One day, after Chuck had been in the bathroom for over an hour, Nate took matters into his own hands – he pressed his shoulder against the door until it buckled. The scene came to him incrementally: first the steam, then the spray, then the bathtub, and then Chuck. He was sitting against the white porcelain, with the water spilling over his head, fully dressed. Even when Nate turned off the spray, Chuck barely registered his presence, his eyes fixed on the blank wall opposite him.

For the first time since he arrived, Nate felt angry. There seemed to be no way to reach him. "Is this helping forget Chuck? Is that what you're trying to do? Trying to forget about Blair? Trying to forget about your father?"

"Don't mention my father," he said flatly. "He hated me."

Nate sat down on the toilet seat. "No he didn't," Nate protested weakly.

"Yes. He did. More than you'll ever know."

There was something final about the way he said it. "So what? Even if he did hate you – so what? Is that any reason to kill yourself over here?"

Silence.

"I hurt Blair," he said softly.

"I've hurt Blair," Nate said, just as softly.

"Not like this," Chuck said.

"She'll forgive you."

"She shouldn't."

"She'll forgive you," Nate insisted. "She forgave me for being a shitty boyfriend. She forgave me for having sex with Serena." Nate swallowed tightly. "And I've never seen her look at anyone like she looks at you."

"How does she look at me?"

Nate searched for the words. He'd never been good at finding those words with Chuck. Even after all these years, he felt cowed by his friend's ability to deliver a witty and incisive comeback. "Like you terrify her. But like she'd rather die than give you up."

Head bowed, Chuck stared at his toes. "Thank you, Nathaniel. Now please leave me alone."

Nate looked at him curiously at the doorway. "You once told me that you loved her. Do you, still?"

But Chuck's eyes were focussed on the wall again. He never replied.

For a few days it seemed as if Chuck was doing better. Nate had managed to convince him to eat, and he hadn't taken drugs. He even smiled a couple of times when Nate forced him to make use of the beach outside. In fact, Nate was getting up the courage to ask Chuck to come back to New York with him. That was until Nate's phone buzzed.

"Oh Christ, not again."

**Spotted: Queen B without a care in the world, getting better acquainted with some of NYC's most eligible bachelors. Chuck, who?**

By the time he got back to the house, Chuck was nowhere to be seen, but his phone was on the table, a picture of Blair looking fierce and beautiful on the screen. When Nate finally found him, hours later, he was lying on the beach, off his face and struggling to stand.

"What are you doing, Chuck?"

Chuck lifted his sand-stained face. "I'm dancing with the devil under the moonlight, Nathaniel. Join me."

"You're upset," Nate said simply.

He finally managed to pull himself to his feet. "I'm not upset."

"You're drunk."

Chuck staggered a few steps backward. "That is hard to deny."

"It's because of Blair, isn't it? You're jealous."

Once more he stumbled, but this time Nate caught him. "I am not jealous. I told her to leave me alone. I fucked her one last time and then I told her to fuck off."

The injustice of it hit Nate in the chest. He shoved Chuck back to his knees. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You should know about throwing Blair aside better than anyone, Nathaniel. Ridden hard, put away wet, that's what I said to her. A year ago. I said that to her."

His speech was slurred and Nate was disgusted with him. "You are a selfish bastard. This is what you like, Chuck. This is who you are. And I've been wasting my time trying to save you."

Chuck was bent in half. "Save me," he fixed his eyes on Nate, and threw his arms wide. "Save me? I don't _need_ saving. What I _need_ is to be left alone. Why can't you and that whore get it through your heads?"

"No wonder your father hated you."

As soon as he'd said it, he regretted it. Nate fancied that he could see the words spiral out of his mouth and cast a web around Chuck before crawling into his ear. It was as if Nate's words had been a physical blow. Chuck launched himself at him, throwing a sloppy punch to his jaw. But Nate was stronger, and less drunk, and Chuck went falling to the ground again.

"Don't you say a fucking word about my father," he shouted, belly-down on the sand.

"I'm sorry about your father, Chuck. But you're still alive. Come back to New York. Talk to Blair. Otherwise you'll be completely alone."

Chuck said nothing, and Nate left him lying on his stomach on the beach. In the morning, Chuck's things were gone. He never came back. And Nate caught his flight home alone.


	3. Chapter 3: Once

**Chapter Three:**** Once**

"_Part of me_

_Has died_

_And won't return._

_And part of me wants to hide_

_The part that's burned._

_Once, once_

_I knew how to talk to you._

_Once, once_

_But not anymore._

_Here the sirens call me home."_

_- Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglove, "Once"

* * *

_

For almost a month, Blair Waldorf had walked around in a daze.

She woke up, she got dressed, she dodged breakfast, and then she settled down for full days of…nothing. Even when school got back, she would sit in class, with words passing by her head. She would will herself to listen intently to what her teachers were saying, berating herself that even with her exceptional SAT scores, she still needed to maintain her perfect school record. In an instant, everything could be taken away. Hadn't that been what her mother had always said?

Only once had the words spilling from her teachers' mouths sparked her interest. It was in English Literature class, and the book was _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_. The teacher was a frumpy old woman, whose slip often showed and whose lipstick was tortured by a tongue that too often wet her lips, so that by the end of the class there was nothing left but an outline. For these reasons alone, Blair hated her a little. But while sitting there in class, her very skin aching from humiliation, exhaustion, and sadness, something changed in her vision as she took in Mrs. Henderson's face.

Perhaps it was because of her ears being completely closed, but as the old woman read aloud from Kundera's book, something changed in her face. Two spots of pink appeared on her cheeks, and her free hand started moving expressively. She was not beautiful, but she was definitely not the plain woman that Blair had gotten used to. So Blair found herself listening to the words that came from her mouth. They were apt somehow.

"_The brain appears to possess a special area which we might call poetic memory and which_ _records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful."_

Surely things with Chuck had begun this way; there must have been a distant, dusty time when his words had been entered into her poetic memory: at her birthday when he told her she was worthy of the beauty of the necklace he had brought her, when he had told her that they would take it slow, do things properly. But with so many dark memories, surely the love should be cancelled out? Or did those imperceptible cruelties merely poison the beautiful moments, until the poetic memory turned against itself. Until the memory became cancerous? Mrs Henderson was still talking.

"_But was it love? The feeling of wanting to die beside her was clearly exaggerated: he had seen her only once before in his life! Was it simply the hysteria of a man who, aware deep down of his inaptitude for love, felt the self-deluding need to simulate it?"_

The words haunted her for the rest of the day, and she couldn't bring herself to pick up her copy of the book for days.

Before leaving for her honeymoon – and undoubtedly pressed by Cyrus – Eleanor had walked into her daughter's room and perched on the side of the bed. Blair had been reduced to reading magazines for escape from memories of Chuck (Chuck's mouth, Chuck's hair, Chuck's hands, dancing with Chuck, hearing him ask her to wait for the future, hearing harsh words from his mouth, hearing gentle words from his mouth, losing Chuck).

Eleanor had never been good at this sort of conversation. "So. Blair. How are you?"

"I'm fine. How are you?"

That hadn't gone how she expected. Eleanor waved her question away. "Cyrus mentioned…something. Something about a boy."

Blair bristled. "What boy?"

Eleanor waved her hand. "He didn't mention." Blair visibly relaxed. "Is it Nate?"

Blair rolled her eyes and turned a page of her magazine. "Please, mother. Nate is so last year."

Her mother was trying to pick the right words. "Is it Charles Bass?"

Something on Blair's face rippled, as it were a lake that someone had just thrown a huge rock into the centre of. Just saying those words, she felt, could expose something in her. It was a whimsical thought, but she honestly believed that the words exposed her. It was the shock that comes with being suddenly observed. As if you are sitting in your car, reading a love letter, or taking a moment to fiddle with a gift from a lover, or thinking about the object of your affection, only to have your friend/parent/chauffeur/rabbi, or worst of all: the object of your affection knock on the window. There was something voluptuous about taking those moments to contemplate a secret emotion inspired by a foreign object, and to be caught out was a horror. That was how Blair felt when someone else said Chuck's name.

"_Charles Bass_," Eleanor breathed. "Interesting. Did he know you liked him?"

_Because I love you_. She hated how her mother made it sound like it was nothing. "Oh he knew."

"And did he say anything about his…feelings for you."

"Not really," Blair muttered.

Eleanor shook her head fondly at her daughter. "You know, Blair, when it comes to men and women, sometimes it's best to hold something back – not to put your feelings on the table. That way, when they leave you know that you protected yourself. Did you protect yourself Blair?"

She thought over her various proclamations of love. Her mother's words forced her to see the scene in another way. The scene had always played out as her desperately trying to reach Chuck, feeling that he was in too much pain to respond. But, maybe, he had been honest with her. The first time he and she had tried to make it work it had been disastrous. He'd panicked – he'd run away. Part of her had always thought that he'd been scared by what he felt for her, that it was too much for his reptilian brain to process. When he'd seen the error of his ways and chased her for half the year, she'd assumed she was right. _The reason we can't say those words to each other isn't because they aren't true_. Maybe her grand love affair had actually been nothing more than an intense attraction (that had never been their problem) that they stupidly attempted to magnify into something more than it was. Perhaps it was hysteria, and not love. She couldn't really blame Chuck for realizing this first. Although, she planned to act like it was his fault, of course.

"Well, it doesn't really matter anymore," she said glumly. "Now he's disappeared to god-knows-where with god-knows-who."

Eleanor reached out to pat Blair's hair. "Well, I suppose the only thing to do is move on. So put on something fetching and find yourself a…distraction. Charles Bass has been trouble since he was in diapers. It's probably for the best that you don't get too involved with him." Eleanor stood up, her maternal quota filled for the next year. "And with all that money – at _his_ age. Who knows what he'll get up to now. Oh, and Blair – those split ends really need some attention. Look after yourself, while we're away," that was code for Blair not to eat an entire pie and balloon to the size of their house while they were away. She smiled. "You'll get over him in no time."

_Easier said than done_, Blair thought.

That night, when the house was still and empty, she stood in front of her mirror in her underwear. How was it possible to lose someone so many times when you had never really had them? She'd thought that there would be an excruciating pleasure in the wait. And that night at the Snowflake Ball, when he had asked her to dance, she had felt that maybe that future was coming, and that soon the wait would be over. And then catastrophe had crashed into the world. And she lost Chuck again. Only this time all of her cards were on the table. And once more, he hadn't said those words that she needed to hear from him. _I will never love you_. She hadn't protected herself. It can all get taken away so fast.

She hadn't been able to catch her breath since. Staring at herself in the mirror, she took in her hair, her body. And that old track in her brain lit up again. It was her. There was something wrong with her – something that had stopped Nate from loving her, something that had stopped Chuck from loving her. And so, she went to the bathroom and threw up.

* * *

Chuck Bass woke up to find his face smashed to a bloody pulp.

He vaguely remembered something about a bar brawl over a girl. Someone's girlfriend perhaps? Then there were the buddies that materialized from nowhere to hold his arms back. He awoke where he had landed – "maybe now you'll watch your mouth, rich boy" – on the floor in a back room of the bar. The sun was rising.

"I was wondering when you'd wake up," a voice – an American said from somewhere behind him. He lifted his face from the ground and saw that the voice belonged to a wizened old black man, who sort of reminded him of Horace, who had owned that bar that Humphrey's gal-pal had wanted to save. The memories made his chest ache. None more so than the memory of Blair underneath his body, vowing never to say those three words to him that she had given him so generously over a month ago. He pressed those thoughts out of his mind.

Chuck pulled himself to his feet. The man sat on an upside down crate, with a book in his lap.

"You always make friends so easily?"

His jaw hurt, but he was fairly sure that it wasn't broken. "I don't play well with others."

Chuck turned to walk away, but the old man shook his head, pulled over a spare crate and conjured some ice from thin air. Maybe it was the resemblance to Horace that made Chuck stay. Maybe it was because his face felt like ground beef and he wasn't particularly keen to find a mirror.

"So was it about money or was it about a girl?"

The man cleaned up his cuts as he spoke. "Does it matter?"

"Oh it matters," the old man nodded. "If it's about money it is easily fixed, but a girl…well a girl makes things more complicated."

_True_, Chuck thought. But when he responded, he spoke with a sneer. "It didn't seem that complicated – I pound his girlfriend, he pounds my face. We seem pretty square."

The man chuckled. "Love doesn't always work like that."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Why do I feel like this is a cliché?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're the wisdom-spouting villager who is meant to put me back onto the right path."

"Are you on the wrong path?"

Chuck chose not to answer.

"You remind me a bit of myself at your age."

"Devastatingly handsome and prone to beatings?"

Chuck quite liked making the man laugh. He must have had a carefree life, Chuck figured. Leaving complications behind and working in a bar. Finally, here was life. He smiled at the old man, who looked suddenly sombre.

"Young, dangerous, and headed for trouble."

Not wanting to let on how much the words hurt, Chuck sneered. "What kind of trouble did you find yourself in, old man?"

"I killed a man."

There are certain phrases that one never expects to hear. Those words enter a room, and spin around it. Chuck could all but see the words coming from his mouth, filling the dark room. Here was no hint of threat in his voice. There was just regret and hollowness. It was an experience, Chuck supposed. And he loved an experience.

"And you ran away?"

The old man's face jerked upwards. "I was chased away," he said defensively. "It was a fist-fight outside a bar in the pouring rain – I didn't know when to stop. I killed him with my bare hands."

"Over a woman?"

"Over money. I wish it had been a woman – there's some honour in that."

"It was a mistake?"

The old man's eyes were distant. "It was a mistake. But the end result was the same. I left my son, my wife. Ran away before the cops could take me in. I had some friends…with connections. I'd done them some favours. They got me out of the country."

"Was it worth it?"

The man thought for a while. "Each morning I look out at the sky or the water, and I think that freedom would be worth it. And now here I am, surrounded by beautiful people, beautiful scenery. And a life with no responsibility, no loved ones – it seemed like life." Chuck nodded. "But was it worth it? Not a chance. I wish I'd never left. Things got hairy, of course. Lots of gambling, drinking – messing with a bad crowd. But there were some things…"

For all his flippancy when the man had talked about love to him, Chuck had learnt one or two things about women. He knew that the look on the man's face had to be caused by a woman.

"Your wife didn't follow you?" He knew that his guess was right.

The haunted look was back in his eyes. "My wife died not two months after I ran."

Chuck just nodded. Everyone has a share of shit, he figured. There was no point offering condolences – or worse, telling him that he was sorry. How many people had said that to him after Bart's death? _Sorry_. A sort of mistake that an apology would fix. As if they had just bumped into him in the street. It was so false. So, Chuck just nodded.

The man reached into the book that now lay on the ground. He pulled out a photograph and passed it to Chuck.

"My wife, my son."

"What happened to him?"

"State took him in – dead mother, fugitive father, so no one really had a forwarding address for him. Never seen him again." The man looked at his photograph. "To tell you the truth, I don't think I would have seen him again if I could. Too much like his mother."

Chuck could hear his own father – _whenever I look at you, I see her_. And Bart Bass had been someone who could look any man in the eye. Of course Chuck now knew that Bart had been at least half lying to him.

"I always like to remember one night when I think of them. We had friends over, and you could hear them yammering on in the next room. She was wearing a nice dress, but sitting in my son's room, in the dark – putting him to sleep. She was sitting on this rocking chair, with all this music streaming through the house, with my son in her arms – no idea I was watching her. The look on her face…don't think I've ever loved her as much as I did that night."

Again, Chuck said nothing. But in his mind's eye, he could see the way Blair had looked at the wedding, in that pink dress, when for once he said the right thing. That moment when she still trusted him, and would kiss him in front of a room full of their friends and acquaintances. That blissful day when he had felt like she was his. Before he'd ruined everything.

"You got a lady?"

For some reason, he couldn't stand to say no. "I think so."

"Nice?"

He half-smiled. "Not really, no."

"Pretty?"

For an instant he would have liked to have shown him the one picture of Blair he allowed himself to keep. But something stopped him. He felt it was somehow cheap to put a face to his untruthful claim that he "had a lady". It was a pity; she would have blown this old guy away. "Beautiful."

"She loves you?"

Chuck suddenly found it very hard to swallow. "Yeah. Well, she used to. But I'm pretty sure she's moving on."

"Well then, my only question is – what the hell are you still doing here, then?"

And for once, Chuck had no witty retort.

* * *

Blair Waldorf was back.

Everyone was thinking it. Gossip Girl was reporting it. Only Serena seemed unconvinced.

She sat in a red booth, legs crossed daintily at the ankle, and held court over her underlings. To the outside world it seemed that she was having the time of her life. But no one knew what was going on inside of Blair Waldorf as she felt her skin turn luminous under the red glow of Barramundi's Asian themed décor. She'd chosen the Manhattan spot as a sort of dark joke with herself; she had called Nate. Chuck was in Bangkok. The Asian-themed evening seemed appropriate, although whether she had chosen to spite him or to feel close to him remained to be seen.

Earlier, when she had been in her bathroom, tearful after heaving the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl, she stared at her face in the mirror and willed it to get easier not to miss him. As she felt herself fading away, part of her wished that she would get so tiny, lose contact with the earth completely, so that Chuck would have to appear to scoop her up. That's what it had taken in that novel – a woman twitching about in the throes of an illness to bring out the love in scoundrel Tomas. Perhaps her fading body would draw him to her. But each day, she felt herself pull further away from the world around her, and still Chuck was nowhere to be found.

There was something sad about Blair, Serena thought. She knew that look – it was the look Lily had worn when she and Bart saw Rufus. Sometimes Serena caught Blair staring out the window searching for something that she couldn't see. Other times, she would catch Blair stealing away to the bathroom. She tried talking to Lily about it, but her mother had been distant herself recently that there didn't seem to be a lot of point. All she could do was try to reach her friend.

One morning, arms full to the brim of coffee and breakfast for Blair (which she would toy with, never eating a mouthful), Serena ran into someone who might be able to pull Blair from her reverie.

"Nate! _Nate_."

"Oh, hi Serena." She was fairly sure he'd been ignoring her.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think that you were avoiding me." When he cut his eyes away from hers she knew she was right. "Talk to me – what's wrong?"

Nate sighed through his teeth. "It's Chuck."

"Seems like everyone I know is worried about Chuck," Serena said glumly. "How was he, when you saw him?"

Nate searched for the words. "He was Chuck…but…drunker, angrier, and meaner. But I lost track of him, so for all I know…"

Serena squeezed his arm. "I'm sure he's fine, Nate." She frowned. "Although it would be nice to have some news. Mom is killing herself worrying about him. I think she feels like she owes it to Bart…you know." She laughed her coquettish laugh, which still made Nate's pulse raise slightly. "But, like I said, I'm sure he's fine. Probably has a drink in hand as we speak."

Nate fixed her with a serious look. "If he doesn't stop what he's doing, I think he's going to kill himself. He needs…well…he needs – someone…"

"Blair?" Serena asked gently.

"I don't know if Blair should even be around him right now. But he was pretty cut up about her. I just can't figure them out, I mean he tells me he was using her and then he goes on a ridiculous bender after hearing that she was out having fun. I'm worried about her…getting too close to him when he's like this."

"Blair is a big girl – she'll be fine."

"Do you really believe it?"

Serena bit her lip. She never did get around to replying.

Back in the present, in Barramundi, Blair was wondering how it was possible for no one to notice that she was turning into vapour and disappearing before their eyes.

Penelope adjusted her shoulder strap, gazing around the bar. Hazel rolled her eyes. "You can look all you want – all the prime real estate is at this table. I've got to hand it to you, B. We thought you might be moping about Chuck Bass, good on you for moving on and getting out on the town."

"Chuck Bass was so last year," Blair rolled her eyes, remembering her own words to Eleanor.

Penelope had found some stooge to have eye sex with, so when she spoke it was distractedly. "According to the _New York Times_ he is so _this_ year."

Kati was straining to see the guy that Penelope had found. "According to Gossip Girl, too. Apparently he's in Scotland buying a castle."

Hazel had scoped out the object of their adoration, rolled her eyes, and returned to scanning the room. "Someone that loaded would not go to poor-man's-England to buy some castle. I heard he was in Monaco."

"He's in Bangkok," Blair blurted out before she could stop herself.

This got all of their attention. Penelope smiled slyly at her. "So B does have the inside scoop. Did he tell you when he's coming back?"

"Are you back on with Chuck?"

"I suppose once you've gone there once you can always go there again."

"But still, I'd go Nate over Chuck any day."

"That's because you're in love with Nate, Penelope. Sorry Blair, but it's true."

Blair was thoroughly sick of their inane conversations. "I am so sick of hearing about Chuck Bass. He was a phase – like hipster jeans – and I have grown out of him."

"Oh my god – is that Chuck?"

Blair whipped around so fast that she could have sworn that she'd given herself whiplash. When she saw who it was they were pointing at, she saw immediately that while there was a striking resemblance, the man was obviously too old to be Chuck. She turned back to her friends to see them smirking at her knowingly.

"You're right B," Hazel said ironically. "You're totally over him."

Blair didn't have a chance to reply, as the older version of Chuck was walking to their table.

"What is it with you and all things Chuck?" Penelope complained. "Even his doppelganger is making a bee-line."

The man stood before the table for a full minute, staring at Blair. Blair felt the impulse to make a bad joke – the sort of "take a photo it will last longer" quip that only ever makes the deliverer look uncomfortable. So she just sat, as her girlfriends shared incredulous looks.

"Blair Waldorf?" She nodded mutely. "My name is Jack Bass. I'd like to talk to you about my nephew."

* * *

The Palace looked the same. It was Chuck who looked different. Wilder, cooler, but purposeful. There was still the Bass smirk, but the eyes were haunted.

"Mr. Bass," Dexter said with surprise as he walked through the lobby with suitcase in tow. "You're back…if you'd just give me a minute to…Mr. Bass – Mr. Bass, wait…"

Chuck Bass was never much good at waiting. As the elevator doors closed, he took a few breaths. He could really use a drink. Luckily, he'd left his suite full to the brim with the finest single malt he could find from his father's collection. When he reached the closest thing to a home that he had ever had: Suite 1812, Palace Hotel, he felt a brief twinge. But, the nostalgia was replaced with confusion when he found a red light go off when he tried to put his key card into the slot. Confused, he knocked on the door.

"Hello, what can we do for you?"

There seemed to be a family of four from Vermont in his suite.

"You could tell me what the hell you're doing in my suite."

The woman looked nervous, but nodded to her husband. "Jack Bass put us up in here. He owns the hotel, you know."

Chuck gave the little blonde creature a withering stare. "Actually, I'm fairly sure _I _own this hotel."

As he spoke, the elevator doors opened and Dexter rushed out. "Mr. Bass, I was trying…your uncle told us…perhaps if we found you another room…"

"That won't be necessary," he scowled. "I will deal with my uncle."

Despite his haughty exit, Chuck found himself in a bind. He could have knocked on the Van Der Woodsen's door, but his pride (and his anger at that whore, Lily) wouldn't allow it. He and Nate hadn't ended their last meeting on the best of terms. When he hailed a cab, possibly for the first time in his life, he kept up the pretence of wracking his brain for a place to stay. But really he knew exactly where he was going. He was just turning over in his mind whether he had a good enough excuse.

* * *

It was around midnight when Dorota came to her room to tell her that there was someone in the elevator for her. Although she made a production about being dragged out of bed, she hadn't been sleeping. Her mind had been buzzing with thoughts of Jack Bass and the drink that they had shared.

**Three hours earlier:**

"It's quite a coincidence, us running into each other," she commented wryly, sipping a martini and once more shaking her head at the similarities between Chuck and his uncle. She had never seen much of the family resemblance between Bart and his son, but now she could see that the Bass genes were in there somewhere.

"It's not a coincidence, Blair," he said her name in the way that Chuck did – as if she were something exotic, that he had recently learnt to wrap his mouth around. In Chuck's mouth, her name had always sounded like something foreign, if familiar: like the Latin name for a double daisy (_Delis hortensis_). She had become something mysterious whenever he'd say it. There was a thrill in that.

"Have you been following me?"

"Yes." There was a thrill in that as well, but Blair affected outrage.

"You have no right to do that – I have no idea where Chuck is. Probably in some Thai whorehouse."

If she'd expected the words to shock him, she had been mistaken. "I know where he is. I'd just prefer it if he came back under his own stead."

"So what do you need me for?" She was honestly curious.

"Who says I need you for anything?"

She blushed in spite of herself. Another family resemblance, then. That disarming manner. That charming but humiliating comment that left her feeling naked. But, she was Blair Waldorf, and she quickly reclaimed her bravado. "Surely Jack Bass has better things to do than stalk a friend of his adolescent nephew?"

Jack looked at her searchingly. "Honestly, I was curious to meet you. Nate Archibald indicated that you were important to Chuck – very important. I have to say that I've been curious what someone who is important to Chuck looks like, acts like. Chuck isn't prone to…deep affections."

"I hope it's not a disappointment," Blair said, honestly.

He didn't directly answer the question. "You know, you are far more beautiful in person."

As he spoke, her gaze lifted from the glass in her hand and she looked into his eyes. There was something strange between them: it wasn't quite an attraction, but rather a sense of mutual recognition. The list of things they had in common was vast: they both cared about Chuck, they both kept their cards close to their chests, and at this moment, they were both trying to make sense of what the other wanted.

"And you are far more difficult to read," she said. "Surely it wasn't just curiosity about Chuck's taste in women that brought you here. You want me to – what? To convince Chuck to come home?"

"Oh Chuck is already on his way home now."

Blair would soon learn that this was Jack Bass's way – to withhold one piece of information that was of vital importance to the other party before hurling it at them in the most off-hand manner possible. Unlike those other girls in her life, and her mother, Jack seemed to fully appreciate how much his words struck her chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Chuck's coming home?"

"I don't think that Chuck really has a home," Jack commented. "And in the ideal world, I would have him live with me. I've just brought an apartment block in the city. Near school, near his friends. But my nephew finds it difficult to trust people, me least of all. That's where you come in."

Blair had felt that there was a bargain coming up. "What do you need?"

"I need you to do two things. I need you to convince Chuck that I'm not the demon he seems to think I am."

"How do I know that you're not?"

He smirked. "Do I look like a demon?"

"No one ever looks like a demon," she commented.

He conceded her point, but knew that she would ultimately capitulate to that request. The very idea of Chuck finally having a family – someone who cared enough, in that strange Bass way, to seek out his nephew's friends – was some comfort to her. People often mistook Chuck's ingrained tastes, his arrogance, for an above average maturity. They were wrong. He needed family, even a family given to him against his will – which, Blair mused, was most people's fate.

"What is the second thing?"

Jack Bass fixed that intense look onto her. "I need you to convince him to allow me to take over his position as CEO of Bass Industries – until he's really ready to take over."

Blair knew, although she'd never asked him, that Bart's decision to appoint him CEO was the single greatest indication of his father's love that he'd ever received. She'd be loath to tell him to give it up.

"It's a lot."

"Blair, Chuck needs some time to have a childhood – not some kind of Machiavellian grooming, but a childhood. He can't do that as the head of a company. Trust me when I say that I have nothing but Chuck's best interests at heart."

"I think you overestimate the power I have over Chuck Bass."

"Impossible," he winked, ordering her another drink.

**The present:**

She'd said she'd think about it. And it was true. She had thought of little else for hours. She was secretly relieved to be pulled out of her reverie, even as she groaned at the time. She pulled on a silky robe and descended the stairs. She was about halfway down when the elevator doors opened.

"Hello, Waldorf."

She felt the air go out of her lungs, and felt the irresistible need to sit down. But she didn't want to show him her weakness, or the pain that the last month and a half had caused her. But when she spoke, her voice was breathless.

"Bass. Is it really you?"

He put down his bag. She kept walking down those stairs, convinced that her knees would buckle at any moment. When she made it onto his level, he was still just standing there. She circled him slightly, taking in the longer hair that curled slightly at his collar, his gaunt, bruised, but still beautiful face, the split lip, and the dark circles under his eyes. He was thinner. He looked exhausted.

Maybe it was exhaustion that made him just stand there as she processed him. The truth was that he wasn't sure that he could speak through the lump in his throat.

Their eyes met. They both felt the sudden drop in their stomachs at the connection. Blair quickly looked away, but not before he saw the emotions chase each other across her face. Unwillingly, his mind passed over that night at Victrola when he had forced himself on her, desperate and needy with grief and love – and terrified at the prospect of both. She remembered it too – she must. And yet here she was, not screaming and not asking him to leave.

"You're back," she said simply.

He bowed his head, trying to muster some of his old bravado. "It…uh…it seems that in my absence, my suite has been rented out to a couple from Vermont. And I suddenly find myself without anywhere to stay."

He could have chosen anywhere. He could have demanded that this couple from Vermont get the hell out of his room. He could have asked for another room. He could have ordered the Van Der Woodsens out of the apartment they had all lived in with Bart. For all she knew he could have stayed with Nate. But he had come here. Come to her, finally. But now that he was there, she didn't for the life of her know what to do with him.

"I'll have Dorota make up the guest room."

"Thank you."

There was a beat of silence. They stood opposite each other. She decided that she liked the longer hair.

"And you need some food."

"Thank you."

They kept standing there. There were so many things she wanted to say to him. There was so much she needed to hear from him. But now that he was finally standing in front of her, she found herself too tongue-tied to speak. She was suddenly very conscious of her robe, her nightdress, and of her bare legs. She adjusted her robe, and his eyes travelled over her body.

She seemed nervous to him. It had never been awkward between them – aggressive and angry, yes. But not usually awkward. She had lost weight; she seemed tiny to him. But there was still the arrogant hold of her head. There was always something essentially Blair about her. He wanted so badly to touch her. But he was half-scared that she might flinch. And half of him was too proud. Maybe this was a mistake.

"Well, I should go do that then. You know where the guest room is, right?" She half ran up the stairs.

"Mr. Chuck?"

He smiled roguishly. "Dorota. How I've missed your services. I believe you're to make up my bedroom." He leant in. "And don't forget to turn down my sheets."

The woman squeaked and disappeared upstairs.

For a while, Chuck entertained himself by touching every ornament in the entry-hall. But soon enough, the recollection of Blair in that skimpy nightdress was enough to lure him upstairs.

"Blair," he said quietly, swinging her door open. The room seemed empty. He traced his long fingers over the perfume bottles, the framed picture of she and Serena, of her father. The photo of Nate, Blair and he – back in the days when she was Nate's girlfriend and he had admired her from afar – had been removed. Soon enough, his exploration brought him to her bed and back to thoughts of them falling asleep in each other's arms. Through the blur of that day, he remembered how it felt to have her arms around him – holding him together when he threatened to fall apart. Feeling no compunctions about invading her privacy, Chuck pulled open the drawer of her bedside table. There, folded and refolded over and over was the note he had left her, and he passed his fingers over it again.

He suddenly noticed that the light to her bathroom was on. It was then that he comprehended the noise that he had been half-hearing since he entered the room: a running tap. He walked over to the bathroom door, and put his ear against it. With some trepidation, Chuck walked to the door and put his ear against it. Over the sound of running water, he could hear her retching.

He'd always suspected, when he observed her at dinners and parties (Blair watching being one of his favourite hobbies while she and Nate were still together), something like this had been going on. But of the small murmurs that he heard on the issue, mainly between Serena and her mother, had given him the impression that this time had been long ago.

With his ear pressed to the door, he could make out the small sobs that punctuated her retches. For a moment, Chuck imagined staying in the room. He imagined that he was like Nate or even Humphrey – capable of saying the right thing. Able to look at someone like Blair and say what she needed to hear. He was still unclear as to what brought him to her house. It was like the night of funeral, when Lily's words thumped around head, impossible to ignore. And those words that Blair had said chased Lily's words until all he could think about was the look on her face outside her limo. No one had ever said that they loved him before.

The saddest thing was that he understood. He dealt with things by being alone – by making himself as lonely as possible. And then there would moments when he was aching with tenderness, and wanted nothing more than to see someone – to see Blair. And he would seek her out, they would fight or fuck and he wouldn't feel alone for a while. But of course the cycle would start again. She dealt with things by being surrounded by people, by being what they dreamed of being. And in those moments when her lips longed to kiss someone who wasn't there, she took control of her emotions and bent over the toilet seat. They were never so close as when they were pushing each other away.

And only a few months ago, he'd been convinced that he could say it to Blair. But, of course, he couldn't. And ever since, he'd been doubting whether he was capable of loving anyone. So, he did what Chuck Bass always did. He left. He wasn't sure that he'd ever stop running.


	4. Chapter 4: Miss Misery

**Chapter Four:**** Miss Misery **

"_The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places"_

_Ernest Hemingway

* * *

_

Three days had passed since Gossip Girl had dropped the Bass bomb, and forums were buzzing with the news that the heir to the Bass fortune had returned to NYC. Even the _New York Times_ reported the rumoured returns of Charles Bass, citing Gossip Girl as a source. But as the days passed, a small but vocal minority demanded evidence. Responding to the public pressure, Gossip Girl announced that she would publish nothing else about Chuck Bass until someone could give her some hard evidence that he was indeed back where he belonged. So far, there were crickets – _tumbleweeds_. There had been no sign of the Prince of the Upper East Side.

And no sign of the Queen B.

Serena was starting to get worried. Never in the history of Blair Waldorf had B cut class for three consecutive days. If Serena didn't step in, who knows whether she would even make it to class at all this semester.

"B – it's Serena. Just call me back, ok? If you're hiding from Chuck…I mean no one has even seen him…Look if you don't call me back I'm coming over."

Another voicemail. She sighed, wrapping her coat closer to her body as a particularly cold gust of wind passed over the bushes outside Central Park. She'd needed to get out of the house, and there was something beautiful about the frozen cool of Central Park in January. Lily had been staring out at the city below their apartment when Serena left, dressed in a black nightgown, with yellow glasses perched at the tip of her nose.

"Are you sure I can't get you anything," she said gently.

Lily smiled distantly. "I'm fine. Go – have fun."

"Okay."

As she turned to leave, her mother called out. "Oh Serena – any word on Charles?"

"Nothing substantial. Just that he's in town."

"Where on earth can he be hiding?"

"It's Chuck, Mom," Serena shrugged. "He could be anywhere."

"And have you…have you seen Dan recently? You two were virtually inseparable after Bart…I mean a few month's ago."

Serena frowned at the mention of her own secret heartache. "He hasn't been returning my calls. There's a spate of that going round. I'll see you later, Mom."

But Lily was already lost in thought.

Serena found herself suddenly very alone, with none of her friends on hand to talk to. Her mother's mentioning Dan had opened up some old wounds that she had hoped would have healed. They'd left things so uncertain – her decision to go to Buenos Aires had been based on what she thought was Lily's impending relationship with Rufus. But as usual, her mother's love life never seemed to work out the way Serena expected. And so she found herself in this limbo.

But in New York City, a mood can change in a matter of seconds. Right then, the wind had shifted, and what had seemed like a dead and frozen patch of flowers had burst into fragrance. The smells were as beautiful as summer, and the cold air seemed gentler some how. She smiled. If Blair was going to insist on acting like she was locked in the Tower of London, Serena was determined to be her friend's cellmate.

* * *

Sometimes, when she came back from her fugitive trips into the outside world, Blair liked to enter unannounced, hoping to catch Chuck unaware. If she was lucky, she'd find him sitting at the piano, playing a gentle melody and looking completely lost. There was something beautiful about his still bruised face when he played the piano. The first time she surprised him, he made a joke. "Enjoying the view, Waldorf?"

"Just trying to see if you're going to steal the silver."

After that first night, both of them had withdrawn from each other. Keeping a safe distance, not speaking about anything serious. But by some tacit agreement, they found themselves hiding out chez Waldorf. He was sleeping again, and during the day they would laze about the house, rarely speaking, but slowly growing accustomed to each other's presence. Blair liked to think of their time together as time for Chuck to heal. She hoped one of them was; just having him here was enough to drive her crazy.

Today, she found him reading the paper, his forehead creased at the centre with concentration. It was rare to find Chuck without a smirk on his face. She came up behind him.

"So that's Jack Bass. I have to say, I can see the family resemblance. _In the Realm of the Basses_. Good title. But the _New York Times_ is such a rag."

She liked how he jumped slightly when he heard her soft voice from behind him. But she hated that she had pretended not to know his uncle. The little dishonesty felt like a betrayal. She had to remind herself harshly that Chuck had never balked at betraying her.

He was still frowning. "Chuck, what is it?"

His jaw was working slightly. _Let me in_, Blair willed him with as much force as she could muster.

"It's nothing."

Disappointment flooded her, but she said nothing, just placed a cup of coffee in front of him. Her hand lingered for an instant on the coffee cup, and focussing on the broadsheet in front of him, Chuck didn't notice until their hands made contact. Almost involuntarily, he hand closed over hers. There was a frozen moment between them, as he followed the line of her slim arm to her collarbone, exposed by the grey dress she wore.

"See something you like, Bass?" she asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Just feeling nostalgic," he smirked, releasing her hand. "Being back in the city, makes me want to get back into some of my - " he eyed her up and down, " – other favourite places."

She crossed her arms. This is what delighted and disgusted her about Chuck Bass. There was never any doubt that he wanted her. And though she knew that even now his eyes raked over her body with desire, she felt that his heart wasn't in it. There was something strange in his eyes, struggling with desire for dominance. It wasn't just that bruised expression he had been nursing since his father's death. She was used to that. It was something more…directed at her. Sometimes when she excused herself to her bedroom, he'd come to the door, half-knock. He'd have no reason to be standing there, and she would merely look at him.

Sometimes she could have sworn that there were words just behind his teeth, struggling to get out, as he fixed her with a (surely it wasn't) _concerned_ look. He never said anything, but his watchfulness had left her feeling vulnerable and exposed. But she never closed the door.

"That doesn't seem likely," she said petulantly.

"Why," that smirk of his was back in full force. "Are you seeing someone? There's been nothing on Gossip Girl, so it must be a non-entity. What about that trust fund disrespecting sasquatch I had decked in your honour at cotillion? He's a real catch."

"As I remember things – it was you who ruined what was meant to be the best night of my life."

"It wasn't that much of a write off, from what I recall." There was a note of bitterness in his voice when he alluded to her being with Nate for the first time. But, he caught himself before giving too much away. "Besides, we both know I made more nights than I ruined…"

"That's debatable," she muttered, but she couldn't help a half-smile from forming on her lips. "Anyway, that's ancient history. Maybe I will give Carter Baizen a call."

Since she had re-emerged into society, she had been spotted with a number of older investment banker types – nothing that she took seriously. And part of her was all-too-aware that her dalliances would be posted on Gossip Girl for all – cough, Chuck, cough – to see. Pain and love, revenge and passion. These were the substance of her and Chuck. If you could call what they had substantial. Perhaps she _should_ call Carter Baizen.

Chuck lifted one of Blair's curls. "We both know that you're trying to figure out the best way to punish me. Why punish yourself in the process by letting yourself get groped by someone so…average. There are better ways to get revenge."

Blair stepped back. "Believe it or not, Chuck. This isn't about you. I can see anyone I want."

"Of course you can. And if you can stomach hearing Baizen talk about his newest pair of man slides, then more power to you. You have nothing in common."

"We have plenty in common. Thank you for your concern. But I do not need relationship advice for someone whose only significant relationship is with his right hand."

"Actually I like to alternate. More interesting wrist movements that way."

"You're disgusting."

"You love it."

There was that word again. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

There were some words that were taboo between them. Ever since Blair had said those words that were meant to change everything, she'd been wishing that it were possible to reel them back in. She had toyed with telling him that she had been mistaken – that she'd been emotional and confused, and that they could go back to being equal players again. But she knew how pathetic that would sound, so before the words even formed, they died in her throat. It was intolerable, really, to feel like she was the wounded party, to imagine that he looked on her with pity – as that foolish girl who had once told him that she loved him. The thought of it made her queasy, and if she hadn't known that Chuck would notice something amiss if she excused herself to the bathroom, she would have bent over the toilet seat that instant.

So she was left, suspended in this moment. With the uncanny feeling that her hands had grown too big for her body – that there was something unsightly about her. And Chuck just stared: unruffled and mute.

The awkward silence extended until Dorota called out, "Miss Blair – Miss Serena for you."

"Tell her I'm busy."

"She's here," Dorota said insistently.

"Excuse me, I have an overbearing best friend to deal with."

Serena heard Blair's heels clopping across the marble floor before she saw her friend. Surely Blair hadn't been so thin last time Serena had seen her. Looking her up and down, she raised an eyebrow. "You're looking pretty dressed up for someone who's given up on human contact."

"Well, if you're going to be a hermit, you might as well do it in style," she said.

Serena peered into Blair's face. "Are you okay, B?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I thought that…you know…Gossip Girl says that Chuck's back. I was wondering how you were doing. I know you say you're over him – but you've been a mess since he left, and - "

"Serena, just _drop _it." Blair craned over her shoulder to where she was sure Chuck was listening.

"He broke your heart – _again_ – and it's okay to be upset. This whole pretending to be fine thing - "

"I asked you to _drop _it, Serena."

"Why won't you talk to me?"

"Blair's afraid of all those prying ears," a new voice contributed. "The Upper East Side's a bitch that way."

Serena thought she should have known. She couldn't understand why Chuck had such a hold on Blair, but really, it was no surprise that she had capitulated to him yet again. Chuck looked for all the world like he owned the Waldorf residence, a paper tucked under the arm of his blue shirt, pulled in close to his grey vest. There had been a while there when Serena and Chuck had been unwillingly and tacitly close. She remembered the stream of women he'd had in the house in the hopes of getting over Blair. She'd felt for him then. She'd felt for him when he and Blair were trying to gain the courage to say that they loved each other. She'd even felt for him when his father had died and he was spewing vitriol at her mother.

But looking at how small Blair was and how smarmy he looked, she couldn't help but despise him. Every time Blair came close to moving on, he swooped back in. It was easy. And then they would show some sign of getting close to making it work. Then he'd panic. He'd run. And Serena would be left to pick up the pieces. For a while she had hoped that he'd show some sign that he was worthy of Blair's love. Couldn't he see that she was wasting away? But no. He was just as self-involved and unaware as ever. And just seeing him made Serena think that she may split into a dozen pieces; surely it was impossible to feel so many contradictory things at the sight of one man. Hoping that she would open her mouth and that the perfect words would come, Serena shook her head.

"My God, Chuck."

"I appreciate the sentiment, S. But I'm just going by Chuck these days."

She stepped forward as if to hug him, but when he kept his arms clasped to his sides she thought better of it. "You should have called to tell us you were getting back. Eric misses you – my mom - "

"Must be happy to have me off her hands," he interrupted.

"Chuck - "

"Come on, S. We're not family anymore. You can drop the concerned act."

She raised her jaw defiantly. "I didn't say I was concerned. But you just ran off without a word to anyone. I know you were upset, but it was just selfish - "

"Serena," Blair suddenly interrupted. "Stop."

Chuck shot her an angry look. "I don't need you to fight my battles, Waldorf. I don't need you to - "

"Yeah. You've made that perfectly clear, Bass" she said sharply, crossing her bony arms in front of her chest. "Thanks for the refresher course in reasons you don't need me." And with that, Blair stormed upstairs.

Chuck felt his stomach drop. He took a step towards the staircase. "Blair…"

"_Don't _follow me," she spat before disappearing into her room.

He turned back to find Serena glaring at him accusingly. "What's wrong with you, Chuck? Why can't you let her move on?"

"I don't know."

There was something in his voice that made Serena's heart ache. "When are you two going to stop tearing each other apart? Go and talk to her." He turned towards the staircase. "Chuck? It would mean a lot to my mom if you came over for dinner. I know that things ended badly, but she still cares about you." A pause. "We all do."

He turned around without answering the invitation. "Don't tell anyone that I'm here."

When he entered Blair's room he was unsurprised to see that she was in the bathroom. He closed his eyes at the sound of running water that couldn't come close to muffling the sound of Blair coughing, retching and crying. Not knowing what else to do, he sat at the foot of her bed, waiting.

In some ways he had been waiting for the last few days. Waiting for the moment when he would figure out what to say, when he would figure out whether he was capable of fixing another human being when he himself was such a mess. If someone had asked him why he'd stayed with her, locked down in this house, he wouldn't have been able to tell them. Something drew him here and wouldn't let him go. Although he hated to think it, he sometimes felt like a family dog who knows that his owner is nearing death – who sits by the hearth and pants up at a man incapable of understanding any message he tries to convey.

So it was for he and Blair. He could tell that his presence was both blessing and curse to Blair. He sensed her resentment and her affection. Sometimes he would stand at her door and watch her, just to experience that jolt one more time. He waited for the feelings to abate – for the sight of her to cease eliciting so many different feelings (resentment, protectiveness, fearfulness, distress, anger, regret, excitement, desire, and, he thought, maybe – love). But the feelings returned every time. And the sight of her fading away gutted him.

He blamed himself, really. He had been feeling better recently, and sometimes he imagined that he was draining Blair of her life force. While he knew that what they were doing was going to destroy her, he couldn't let her go. Because then, he'd be truly alone. And he was scared of himself. So he sat on the bed and waited.

When she finally emerged, she jumped slightly with surprise at seeing him. There was something else – was she _embarrassed_?

His voice was husky. "How long?"

She walked to the mirror and sat down at her dressing table, not wanting to speak, not wanting to see him. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He looked at her reflected in the mirror, brushing her hair. "Yes you do. How long?"

"Since I was fourteen years old Chuck, Jesus."

"I knew about it then…I mean how long has it been going on recently."

She put down the brush and looked at his reflection. It was easier talking to each other through the looking glass. "How long do you think?"

He looked down, feeling a twinge of guilt. But there was also anger – anger that she'd do this to herself. And anger that she could make him feel guilty about the pain he had been feeling. "So you blame me?"

"Not for this, at least," she said quietly.

Being back here, with her - it was the first time for so long that Chuck had felt anything other than inebriation, and he was out of practice. The irrational anger just kept coming, getting worse in the face of her calm. "My father _died_ and you're pissed at me for not wanting to take you to the homecoming dance? You _cannot_ blame me for this."

She turned around on her chair, all attempts at composure gone. "No Chuck. I blame you for running away. I blame you for how you made me feel when you told me you'd never love me. And I'm angry at you for not…letting me help you."

"You seem to have moved on pretty well," he spat. "Gossip Girl is covered in reports of your conquests." He hated that his voice broke slightly.

Suddenly they were both standing and facing each other, screaming into each other's red faces.

"I spoke to Nate – I know what you were doing in Bangkok. So don't act like a jealous boyfriend!"

"I'm not jealous. I'm just surprised how fast you got over your whole unrequited 'love' thing. It took at least four years with Nate before you got the hint that he didn't love you."

"Maybe with Nate I thought there was something worth holding onto."

Chuck drew a sharp breath. "Well nothing's stopping you now. Go running back to Nate."

"That tune was cute last year, but you know as well as I do that I don't want Nate. I don't belong with him, remember?"

"No. You belong with Carter-fucking-Baizen, or any of the other pathetic up-starts you have your photo taken with on Gossip Girl" he spat.

"What did you expect? You pushed me away and it _worked_. I lay in bed for a month crying over you. What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to be okay," he shouted.

If he thought he was going to out scream her, he had another thing coming. "It was _not_ okay - "

"No - getting away from me…it was…I wanted…it was supposed to make you better," his voice had lost all aggression. If anything, it cracked and wavered with emotion. "I was supposed to stop dragging you down with me. It was…you were supposed to be okay."

Comprehension dawned on her face as she stared into his face, seeing the shame of his downcast eyes. He'd been pushing her away to protect her from himself. The thought blossomed in her mind, warming her. He'd been protecting her. He wasn't telling her that he loved her; he may have been incapable. But this was the closest he'd ever come. At least she knew that he did have some feelings for her.

She didn't even notice that there were tears falling down her face until he wiped one of her tears away. The shock of his touch sent waves of electricity down her spine. Without her mind willing it to, her hand rose to settle over his hand on her face.

"You're so perfect," he murmured. "How do you not see that?"

Then, hesitantly – gently – he moved in to kiss her. But before their lips could make contact, a harsh noise made them both jump. Sighing, Chuck reached out for the phone that sat on her bed, but before he handed it to her, he looked at the Caller ID. Nate Archibald.

He passed her the phone. Her eyes were so wide that it hurt his chest just to look at them. "I was right – what I said in that note. You _are_ better off without me, you know. Please don't mention my return to Nathaniel. Good night, Blair."

The door closed to the sound of the ringing phone before Blair relocated her power of speech to whisper, "Good night, Chuck."

For the first time in months, she felt like she had a memory of Chuck to add to her poetic memory.

* * *

It was around that time that Chuck started going out at night, and didn't come home until the early hours of the morning. Blair tried not to think about what he was doing, but every now and again, Gossip Girl would report some dalliance with a woman, and Blair would feel her heart ache, even as she started assuring herself that she didn't care. She didn't care that he was wrapped around some blonde woman at Victrola. She didn't care that he didn't tell her that he was putting together the capital to buy back Victrola, right from under Jack Bass's nose. She didn't care that he had started avoiding the few rituals that they had fallen into during his time at her house. And she didn't care that once more, that little part of Chuck that she felt that she owned was hidden from view once more.

She found herself back at school, feeling light-headed and unsure of how she'd gotten there. That had been happening quite often, recently. Blair would, not quite blank out, but rather she would feel as if she were dissolving, and reforming at a new location. The same thing had happened the night before when Jack Bass had asked her out to a drink. They had been having their usual conversation – about Chuck. Blair had fallen into simply giving him the bare-bones details of Chuck's comings and goings. It was difficult ground to tread; she hadn't really seen Chuck for the last few days. It amazed her how distant two people in the same house could be: although she supposed that married people all learnt this lesson.

Jack had taken to just asking Blair about herself: she was starting to suspect that the older man was attracted to her. Although nothing in their meetings could be discerned as improper, there was a moment - when her dizziness had taken hold, and she'd stumbled for a moment, only to have him catch her arm – that his lingering touch had and focussed gaze had struck her as…intimate. Perhaps he was just worried about her welfare, but they had fallen into a relationship that was entirely difficult to categorise. The fact that it was a secret lent their meetings a particular air of mystery that was intoxicating.

Or perhaps that was just the feeling of white noise that had invaded Blair's head.

It took her several minutes to realize that Serena was standing in front of her on the Met steps.

"I'm sorry S, what were you saying?"

Serena affixed her with a concerned look. "I was telling you the details for my mother's dinner tonight. Blair, honestly – are you doing ok?"

"I'm fine. Really."

Serena sniffed slightly. "How is Chuck?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Blair said glumly.

Things were starting to get out of hand. A tiny part of her had imagined that once Chuck uncovered her secret: the desperate purges over her toilet, he would somehow save her. After their conversation the night that Serena had discovered Chuck's lodging at her house, Blair had half-thought that something would change. But Chuck had taken up his nocturnal ways, without breathing another word to Blair about any of the things they had brought up in that shouting match.

"I'll be there."

"So will Jack Bass," Serena commented. "He's really something. Just like Chuck, but older, calmer, and less…you know. Evil. No offence."

Blair felt a slight swoop in her stomach. Whether it was excitement or trepidation, she couldn't be sure.

"None taken."

"Will it be difficult getting away from Chuck? Mom wanted to invite him, I think, but with everything with his uncle, and the way he acted towards her, I think she was right to try to organize a…quiet evening." When Blair didn't comment, Serena pressed on. "Aren't you going to finish that yoghurt?"

"I already ate."

Blair had put special effort into her appearance that night. Even she had to admit that she'd out done herself. Frowning at her reflection, she adjusted the top of the deep purple strapless dress, and fiddled with the shimmer of fabric over one of her arms. It was slightly shorter than she would usually wear, and it crossed suggestively over her chest. As she adjusted one of her signature curls, she sighed into the mirror. Chuck would love…

But she caught herself in time.

There was just one thing missing, but she wasn't sure that she could bear to wear it. The necklace that Chuck had given her would be perfect with this dress. With a slightly shaky hand, she clasped it around her neck. It did look perfect. And it had been a gift; she shouldn't feel like a traitor for wearing it to this dinner party with Chuck's estranged step-mother and uncle. Besides, he was Chuck Bass – he didn't have emotions, just hormones. Besides, he was off gallivanting with who knew who. He had to be here to have feelings about issues.

As always, when she entered the Van Der Woodsen's house, she felt overwhelmed by the size of the place, and by the sumptuous decorations that Lily painstakingly selected. But more than that, she was struck by the warmth that emanated from the place – surely this was Lily's doing; Bart Bass had not been a warm man. Blair's arms prickled slightly as she entered the foyer, with the huge Prada portrait that she simply adored.

Despite her flawless manners, Blair soon tired of socializing. Serena was surrounded with her mother's friends, and she was often deep in conversation with Jack Bass. Blair couldn't stomach speaking to the man, and something stopped her from walking to him while he spoke to Serena; she had always felt that next to Serena she was slightly eclipsed. Though why she would worry about what Jack Bass thought of her, was beyond her. He had dropped her a wink when she walked passed. She didn't like that one bit.

As soon as possible, she found herself alone in the room that had been Chuck's. It felt like a mausoleum; it was full of those things that Chuck had thrown off so easily when he left this place. She wondered what he had taken with him. Was there any memory that wasn't disposable to Chuck? She breathed the scent of the room – surely the cleaning staff regularly cleared and aired the room, but she felt as if she could smell Chuck – Chuck as he had once been – seeping out of the very walls.

She sat on his bed, fumbling about for a thought to catch hold of.

"Hey," came a familiar voice.

"What are you doing in here, Nate?"

"I'm not in the mood for the big to-do out there. And I wanted to check on you."

A comfortable silence fell between them. Nate looked at her profile. She looked amazing, but sad. The room was lit only by the hall outside, and her cheekbones seemed sharp in this lighting. Sharp and beautiful, that is how he had frozen Blair in his mind. He was filled with affection for her. "Are you happy, Blair?"

She turned to look at him. "No." He nodded, taking a sip of some amber liquid in his glass. "Are you just going to let that hang in the air?" she asked.

He sighed. "I don't know what to tell you, Blair. You're possibly the biggest bitch that I've ever met."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she said, downing more champagne.

"But you're also the most loyal person. I was a terrible boyfriend. And you stayed with me for years. You don't give up on people who you care about." He paused.

"Are you telling me not to give up on Chuck?"

Nate looked at the possessions that Chuck had shed like a skin. "No. I'm warning you that if things don't change between you then you shouldn't let him destroy you."

She'd never heard Nate speak like this. "Someone's been watching Oprah," she joked, trying to lighten the mood

"Seriously, Blair. Chuck's my best friend. But I really care about you. And I don't want you to sit here, waiting for him. Because if you're waiting for him to show another side of himself…well…I don't know if there is another side of him." Blair couldn't look at him, but he pressed on. "You're smart and beautiful – and tough – and I don't want you to miss out on the best years of your life waiting for him to become worthy of you."

She smiled down at the railing. "Thanks Nate. I might let the bitch comment slide."

"It's true," he protested.

"Shut up."

The sweet moment hung in the air, and Nate felt like saying a lot of things. He might have mentioned that she had been an amazing girlfriend to him, that she had been more than amazing with Chuck. He thought about asking her how she was doing, how life was – feeling the need to capture that intimacy that they had once enjoyed so easily. He knew that they didn't understand each other in that preternatural way that she and Chuck did, but they had been together for a long time. And in this room, he felt that they might finally have been able to talk about times passed.

But, of course, at that moment their phones buzzed. There were two photos: in one, Jack Bass clasped Blair's arm, and gazed at her intensely. In the other, Chuck stood outside her door with a case in hand. This would _not_ be good.

**Gossip Girl here, reporting on a whisper that has been passed up and down the Upper East Side. Looks like Queen B has landed yet another Bass. Between Uncle Jack and Bass Jnr, it's a wonder that B has time to go to Lily Van Der Woodsen's dinner – as Jack's date? With B doing all this juggling, why do we feel like Chuck is the jester? Some scandals are just too good not to dish. And betrayal is best served hot. **

Nate hadn't commented on the fact that Chuck was clearly hiding out at her house. He had simply sighed, offered his arm, and led her back to the party. When they were seated, he and Serena launched into an argument about some book they had read in the Hamptons (something about ripping out pages to share the book, Blair wasn't really listening). She found herself diagonally opposite Jack Bass, who occasionally raised his glass in her direction, while Lily looked on reproachfully. Blair toyed with the food on her plate, still fuming over the Gossip Girl post. There was no chance that Chuck wouldn't have seen it. The necklace that he'd brought her burned against her skin.

"So, Jack. Any big plans for Bass Industries?"

It was always the way at these dinners, business talk always intruded at some point. Blair noticed that Lily had affixed Jack with a particularly focussed look. For his part, Jack swilled his drink and smiled roguishly. "If I told you it would spoil all the fun – not the least at the Stock Exchange."

The man who had asked the question chortled. Lily held her wine glass near her face, her other arm crossed. "Of course, it really falls to Charles," she commented.

Jack looked at her, a steely glance. Something was going on, but no one knew except for Lily and Jack.

"Every decision I make, I make in Charles' best interests," Jack said, his smile tight.

"_Every _decision," Lily mimicked. "Spoken like a true parent."

Jack's gaze became even steelier. "Well I am hoping that eventually Charles will consent to having me as a parent-figure – a guardian, if you will."

"Well then, _Uncle_. Maybe you should start by inviting me to a few of these secret family dinners you've been arranging."

Chuck had entered without warning. Blair could tell immediately that he'd been drinking. The entire assemblage shifted in their seats, all too aware that it was merely because Chuck had not claimed his inheritance that they were allowed to sit in the building that was essentially his without his invitation. Chuck looked at each of them in turn. His eyes settled on Blair for an extra beat. They seemed so scornful. It was like that night at Victrola when – but no, she could scarcely think about that night.

"Chuck," Jack said heartily. "Well this is a surprise."

**Spotted: Jack Bass caught by surprise**

Chuck strolled up the side of the table, still looking at all the guests. He almost stumbled at one point, but caught himself. Blair felt a wave of trepidation; she knew that look. That look told her that Chuck Bass was about to lay waste to the dinner table.

"Imagine my surprise to hear that there was a party at my hotel, which I wasn't invited to. A guest list oversight, no doubt."

Lily was the first to react. "Chuck - "

She moved towards him, desperate to hold him in place, to talk to him. But he stepped back. She was the last person he wanted speak to. Scratch that – _Jack_ was the last person he wanted to see. Jack Bass. It had been years since they last saw each other. And they had not parted on amiable terms. Confused and more than a little angry, he cast his accusing eyes on Blair, who was looking more than a little shell-shocked.

"Imagine my surprise," Chuck continued, circling like a shark, pausing slightly behind Serena's chair. "Just imagine – how it felt to hear about this illicit gathering at my father's house. A table full of people who either didn't give a damn about him, or who out-right betrayed him. A dinner for the ages, some would say. It's positively Roman. It's a scene from Julius-fucking-Caesar."

Blair stood up, reaching for his arm. "Chuck."

"Don't touch me," he hissed. "What is it, Blair? Are you spying on my for my dear Uncle Jack?"

Jack also stood, throwing his napkin down. "That's enough, Chuck."

Chuck threw his head back and laughed. "Defending her honour, _Uncle _Jack? Then it must be more than just spying. What – are you _fucking_ her? I hope you don't mind sloppy seconds, Jack, because that would make you the third person at this table - "

The slap could have been delivered to everyone at the table. They all jumped. Nate had unknowingly stood up, ready to deliver his own blow if it came to that. But Serena had beaten them all to the punch, so to speak.

Serena's usually clear face seemed to have clouded over. Her eyes were narrowed. "How dare you? After all she's done for you – after everything you've put her through…"

"Serena," Blair croaked, feeling that fuzziness come upon her.

But Serena was too busy shouting at Chuck to notice that her friend's hand was shaking, fixed on the back of the chair. Chuck knew that he'd gone too far, and even as Serena yelled at him, he felt the anger fading, replaced by concern as Blair's eyes went slightly unfocussed.

"Serena," Blair said, louder this time.

The grey was coming upon her fast, and her vision was receding to black at the corners. Then the entire scene disappeared into darkness, just as Nate, Serena, and Jack started stepping towards her. But her eyes were only on Chuck. He was the last thing she saw as her knees gave way.

* * *

It was dark and still in Chuck's old room, and – unbelievably – the party outside still buzzed, even after Blair's fainting episode. Lily had apologised for the theatrics, brushed over Chuck's outburst, and then filled everyone's glasses, before excusing herself into the room where Blair lay on the bed, hair fanned over her head. The doctor had finished checking her over – he expressed some concern over her dehydration, and said that she was on the verge of being malnourished. If this happened again, hospitalization would be the only option.

Lily listened to all of this with a look of tenderness on her face. She sat on the edge of Blair's bed, stroking the girl's hair. Serena stood at her mother's shoulder, with Nate buzzing awkwardly around all of them. Chuck felt a pang of jealousy that he couldn't be in the room. Of course, there was nothing stopping him from going in. But he knew that his horrible words at dinner had caused Blair's collapse. Strutting in and listening to the doctor's orders would seem a bit hypocritical. Besides, Chuck was most comfortable at the outskirts. He leant against the door-frame and listened to everything.

And against the other wall stood Jack Bass.

Chuck hated how alike they looked. He'd used to love it, back when Jack was his favourite uncle. The recollection was sketchy, but he was fairly sure that Bart had once smiled indulgently at Chuck after a particular prank or indiscretion. He once shook his head and said, "just like your uncle." But then, at around thirteen, just after he'd lost his virginity to Georgina Sparks, Chuck remembered all that suddenly changing. Jack didn't come over anymore. And Bart's tolerance of all things…well…him had decreased to zero. It wasn't until Bart had died that he'd found out the real reason…

Well. That was all the past.

"You know when you stare at me like that I feel the urge to remind you that we're strictly platonic," Chuck muttered sarcastically.

Jack's lips quirked into a half-smile. "Chuck, I'd hoped that we'd be able talk."

Chuck's arms were crossed tightly across his chest. "We could have spoken at his funeral."

"I wasn't able to make it," Jack said carefully.

An observer might have been forgiven for mistaking Jack for Chuck twenty-five years in the future. Both of them had the cool mode of address, but whereas Chuck's eyes were haunted, Jack's still sparkled. And Chuck resented him for it. There was only one other way that they differed: Jack was less good at hiding his feelings. It was a sign of weakness, Chuck thought. It allowed an opponent to know when they hit the mark.

"It's for the best. He wouldn't have wanted you there. Just like I don't want you here."

Jack winced. "I want to do right by you, Chuck."

"Then leave me alone."

"I can't do that."

Jack turned to return to the party. Chuck felt some blunt, wordless need to say something to him. Some way to convey the pain that he'd been put through not merely for a month, but for all those years. "He hated me, you know," Chuck said.

"He didn't hate you, Chuck. He made you the CEO of his company. He hated me."

"And now it's my turn to pick up where he left off."

Jack shrugged. "If that's what you want." He started towards the main room again. But paused. "You're running out of family, Chuck. That's all I'm saying.

"I've noticed."

Jack paused one final time. "And it wasn't Blair's fault, you know. She was being pulled so many directions – and her only concern was your well-being." Something played across Jack's face. "She's a beautiful girl. Don't push everyone in your life away. That was…Bart's mistake."

If he'd been expecting a response, he would have been waiting a long time. He left Chuck alone, the way Chuck had always preferred. In fact, he had already over-stayed his welcome.

Lily had returned to her guests, leaving Nate and Serena to hold a vigil next to Blair's bedside. Nate had finally settled down to sitting on a chair on the other side of the bed from Serena.

"This is all Chuck's fault," Serena said suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Probably," Nate commented.

"I think that something happened before he left," Serena whispered. "She hasn't been the same since. It's like they ran out of ways to hurt each other – and then found an even deeper way to go about it."

Nate thought of Chuck in Bangkok, sitting in the shower, whispering about hurting Blair. The way he'd said it had been so intense. He probably would have told Nate then, but some part of him hadn't wanted to ask. _I fucked her one last time_. Did Chuck even care about Blair at all? Even after she'd collapsed, he'd left her alone in his dark room.

"I don't know."

Serena stroked Blair's hair. "Let us help you, B."

Blair slumbered on.

* * *

"Hello Charles," Lily said quietly, coming up behind him.

He'd been trying to make a quiet get away, and he'd thought he was successful, until she'd come upon him on the street outside. He turned to face his former stepmother. She was still beautiful; her pale skin glowed even under the harsh streetlights.

There were changes though. The easy grace of her movements had turned into a slow, slightly pained movement. When she smiled, the expression didn't quite meet her eyes. Chuck felt a stab of anger over the fact that it was probably over Dan Humphrey's father that the sadness had invaded her face.

"Good evening, Lily," he said quietly, still scanning the street for his limo. He'd have to make new arrangements; this new limo driver was not up to his rather discerning standards. After the altercation with Jack, he wasn't sure he could stomach yet another family reunion.

"It's good to see you," Lily stood next to him, knowing better than to touch him.

"I wish I could say the same about seeing you."

There was a pause.

"Thank you, for not telling my secret."

He acknowledged this with a nod. "And thank you for not telling mine."

She looked at his profile. If he found her changed, then he had clearly not looked in the mirror recently. The cuts and bruises on his face had receded, and to some extent, the lingering imprint of them served only to enhance his face. He'd always had a symmetrical, roguish look about him. With these small facial imperfections, so fitting with his personality, he looked more intense, more striking. He was more of a clothes-horse than Bart had been, but she could tell even under his perfect clothes that he'd lost weight. He stepped away, preferring to hail a cab than to wait with Lily.

"You know, Charles, there's something terrifying about a secret getting out into the open. But the instant that they are shared, they lose their power over us. There's intimacy in disclosure. It's when someone exposes a secret that the effects are devastating."

"What's your point, Lily?"

She sighed. "My point is that eventually you'll have to turn and face your secret. It would be nice to have someone next to you when you do."

"Good night, Lily."

"Good night. Oh and, Charles? Our door is always open for you if you want to come home. A family doesn't just dissolve because one member leaves it."

He paused before climbing into the tardy limo. "You know better than anyone Lily – we were never family."

And then he was gone.

She stood there for a long time, fearful of the shadows in her past, scared of Chuck's future, and wondering when Bart's spectre would stop haunting all of them.

* * *

The next evening, Blair was sitting in the guest room that had become Chuck's, thinking, with a blanket wrapped tightly around her bare shoulders. At Lily's insistence, she'd stayed at the Palace, but early in the morning, she had left, thanking Lily for her concern, and assuring Lily that Dorota would take care of her. She had gotten dressed for bed hours ago, but something stood between her and sleep. She took a sip of the cup of tea that a worried Dorota had made her. The scenes from the evening before – from several evenings before – swam in her head. She wasn't even convinced that she was making sense of them, they just bobbed in front of her face, demanding attention.

Really, she was too exhausted and overwrought to care.

Because this is what life with Chuck was like. A one-sided battle into his mind, and his heart. But even after all this time under siege, she was no closer to cracking him. Maybe Nate was right, and there was nothing under that cool surface. Perhaps, something in him kept him coming back to her, because there was safety in the certainty of her open arms.

She could live it over again, her fearful conviction that she could never tell him that she loved him. Chuck had claimed that they couldn't say that they loved each other because it would change what they were to each other. But Blair knew better. She had been scared to tell him that she loved him because she didn't trust herself, or him. He was right in some ways – without the game, how long would they last? But he'd gotten it wrong, too. She'd been scared that the games would continue indefinitely, that they would never relax with each other.

Maybe he loved the game, because it kept her at arm's length.

When he entered the room, she could smell the cigarettes and alcohol from where she sat. At first he didn't notice her, but pulled off his shirt. She tried to watch him with objectivity, to see him not as someone she loved or desired, but just to see him. He was tired, too. She just didn't think he'd ever let himself rest.

He did a slight double take when he saw her. "If I'd known I was putting on a show, I would have turned on music."

She smiled slightly, and sipped her tea. He frowned when she didn't rise to the bait. This was a new game, and he didn't know the rules. Silence without explanation threw him – there was nothing seductive about her manner, although she looked beautiful and vulnerable on that chair in one of her silky nightdresses.

"Are you…feeling better?" The words he couldn't say floated before his vision. _I'm sorry. For what I said, for making you worry about me, for not allowing you to trust me enough to confide in me about Jack_.

"I was overtired," she said quietly.

"I think we both know that's rubbish."

"Whatever."

Then she just sat there. Chuck was tired, slightly drunk, and sick of whatever this was. "What are we doing right now Blair?"

"I'm valedictorian," she said, suddenly.

He decided to keep getting undressed. "Congratulations," he said flatly.

"Thank you. I found out last week."

"And you didn't mention it until now?"

"No, I didn't."

He was now in his underwear. He still couldn't make out what Blair was doing in his room – and he was inarticulately worried about her collapse last night. Even as he drank, flirted, and downed a noxious combination of pills, he worried about her. And his mind constantly returned to the feeling of being outside, looking in, when Nate and Serena got to stand right next to her. Now she was here, he found himself too shy and too proud to tell her that he was worried.

She stared at him as he undressed, but made no sexual overtures. Truthfully, he was thrilled and terrified by this new game. He couldn't get his bearings. Something was wrong.

"Why do you and your uncle not speak?"

Chuck scowled. "A family falling out."

"But that's not the whole story, is it?"

"That's all the story you need to hear."

"Tell me," she insisted.

There was nothing pushy about her tone; it was almost defeatist. Chuck had the sense that this was a terribly important scene, but he couldn't tell why. For an instant, he imagined telling her everything, being completely exposed. But as soon as he imagined it, he pushed the notion away. She had her own problems. He'd been wrong about the power of "I love you" to change things. There were any number of tiny intimacies that combined would change them forever. And despite his exhaustion, he didn't want to change. He didn't want to have to be exposed. Because even he didn't know what he would find.

"It's none of you business, Blair."

She stood up, folding the blanket and placing it on the chair. He couldn't help but feel a swell of arousal as he saw the low back of her nightdress. This was something he knew – this was familiar and safe. He wrapped his arms around her waist, kissed the nape of her neck.

"Do you want me?" He breathed into her skin.

"Yes," she said honestly. But then, she freed herself from his clutches, leaving him standing there, shirtless, perplexed, and more than a little turned on. "But I don't have you."

"So we're back to this," Chuck spat. "Ultimatums, games. I thought we'd moved on."

"We never stopped playing games. Your whole decision to stay here was part of a game. But you don't even know the rules. Tell me why you came here, Chuck."

He crossed his arms over his bare chest. "I came here, because I needed a friend. I thought you'd help me. Clearly I was wrong."

"That's not why you came, Chuck. You have never wanted my help, no matter how much I keep offering it. And I am just starting to realize that you actually don't know why you came here. Just like you don't know why you tried to ruin Lily's dinner last night."

Chuck was at a loss for words, so Blair continued.

"You came here because even though you can't love me, and even though you don't want to be with me, you're terrified that I'm going to move on and you're going to lose something that you're too scared to ask for. That's what keeps you coming back. You don't understand how I can love you, so you test me and toy with me, half hoping that one day you're going to push me away completely, and then you can say that you were right all along, and that love is B.S. and you can go back to being alone."

"I can see you've been reading the _In Style_ psych section. But, spare me the psychoanalysis, Blair. You have no idea what you're talking about. You have no idea how I feel."

"Maybe not, but I know how I feel. And I'm done."

Emotions chased each other across his face. When he spoke, his voice was desperate, untamed, not at all his usual calm. "So I guess this proves me right. Love is B.S."

She touched his cheek, but he jerked away. "No, what we're doing is B.S. - you can't just stand close to me and say that it's enough. You didn't want to change things between us, well guess what – they changed. Things change. And if we don't change with them then we are eventually going to be nothing to each other."

"So what? Either I say those words to you or – what?"

"When are you going to get that this isn't a bet? All I'm asking for is for you to trust me enough not to push me away. I need for you to tell me what you're running away from – why you don't speak to your uncle, and why you won't suck it up and take over your father's company, which he cared about more than anythi-"

He grabbed her arm angrily, a little too hard. "_Don't. Talk. About. My. Father._"

She fixed him with a steady gaze, even as her eyes filled with tears. "Why not?" He just shook his head, his grip loosening, until his hand just rested on her arm. For once, she didn't care that he could see the tears. "Why can't we talk about it? Why do you only show me that you care by hurting me? Why can't you sit here and talk to me – about why you ran, about your uncle, about Lily…about me, and how you don't know how to help me."

"I don't know the answer to any of those questions," Chuck whispered huskily.

Almost in spite of himself, he wiped one of the stray tears from her cheek. She half smiled. "At the risk of sounding like an after dinner special, I think we both need to be alone for a while…figure things out."

"And then what? 'Maybe in the future…'" he started, but she stopped him.

"I think we make enough of a mess of the present without worrying about the future, don't you?"

He nodded. "I'll pack up my things. I'll be gone in the morning."

**Spotted: A boy and a girl realizing that what you want is not always what you need. **


	5. Chapter 5: If, My Darling

**Chapter Five****: If, My Darling**

_If my darling were once to decide_

_Not to stop at my eyes, _

_But to jump, like Alice, with floating skirt into my head,_

_She would find no table and chairs,_

_No mahogany claw-footed sideboards,_

_No undisturbed embers;_

_The tantalus would not be filled, nor the fender-seat cosy, _

_Nor the shelves stuffed with small-printed books for the Sabbath,_

_Nor the butler bibulous, the housemaids lazy;_

_She would find herself looped with the creep of varying light,_

_Monkey-brown, fish-grey, a string of infected circles_

_Loitering like bullies, about to coagulate;_

_Delusions that shrink to the size of a woman's glove,_

_Then sicken inclusively outwards. She would also remark_

_The unwholesome floor, as it might be the skin of a grave,_

_From which ascends an adhesive sense of betrayal,_

_A Grecian statue kicked in the privates, money,_

_A swill-tub of finer feelings. But most of all_

_She'd be stopping her ears against the incessant recital_

_Intoned by reality, larded with technical terms,_

_Each one double-yolked with meaning and meaning's rebuttal:_

_For the skirl of that bulletin unpicks the world like a knot,_

_And to hear how the past is past and the future neuter_

_Might knock my darling off her unpriceable pivot._

- Philip Larkin, "If, My Darling"

* * *

There is something terrible about finally getting what you want. So, when Chuck Bass found himself finally, utterly alone, a feeling of inexplicable terror came upon him, filling his chest and making his hands shake. There was something menacing about the long dark streets; there was something gruesome about the dim streetlights that cast a pale glow over the scene.

There was nowhere for him to go. There was no place that would hold it's arms and doors open to him without an unbearable apology or some loss of pride. The last door on the Upper East Side that had been open to him was now firmly closed. His status as pariah and scoundrel seemed set in stone, confirmed by the one woman he had ever cared for.

And what's worse, he didn't feel like getting drunk.

One thing he needed to do was to get away from this stony door and the sense that Blair (probably long asleep) could see him.

For the first time he could remember, Chuck Bass hailed a cab. There was one place left to go, though if the city hadn't seemed suddenly like a jungle to him, crushing him from either side, rustling with hidden predators, there was no way he would have considered going there.

"Bass Industries," Chuck murmured to the driver, unsure of what the usual pleasantries in a cab would be, and deciding that he didn't particularly care.

"At this hour?"

"No, several hours from now, after you've finished interrogating me."

The taxi driver tapped his hat sarcastically. It seemed like every kid he picked up from this address had an attitude problem. Still, the kid seemed overwrought, and the combination of the early hours in the city and a suitcase usually spelt trouble. Even the snootiest little wanker deserved some kindness. And Earl was nothing if not kind.

"You having a good night?"

Chuck had a hand steepled over his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He never answered. Earl would never know how close the proud-looking boy wearing the purple shirt was to crying. Or how terrified he was when they finally reached the menacing building. It was a shame; Chuck needed someone to talk to at this moment more than ever.

"Look after yourself, kid."

Finally alone. With no friends, no family, and even without Blair. Alone at last with Bart Bass's ghost.

Bart's office was largely as he remembered it, but small differences sparked an inordinate anger in Chuck. The framed photo of Bart and Chuck's mother had been surreptitiously removed, the chair on the visitor's side of Bart's desk was now warmly angled towards another in a "group hug" type formation that Bart had never been able to abide. Even the small chunk of Hadrian's Wall that sat on the wide mahogany desk had been unceremoniously shoved into a drawer. Chuck scowled at the thought that it had been Jack Bass who had made these changes, who had read the sport's pages and left them on the coffee table, when serious-minded Bart had read _The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The International Herald Tribune._

All this furtive rearranging smacked of someone too weak to rearrange the room around himself, and so wafted himself around its hard edges: a poisonous gas. In Chuck's sleep-deprived, over-wrought state, he fancied that he could see Bart's spirit setting itself against Jack's. Of course, in Chuck's mind, Bart was the hard lines and Jack was the shadows. In reality, it was hardly such a fair fight; the dead couldn't fight the living. The living could only be destroyed by the memory of the dead.

Chuck didn't know whether it was the draining fight with Blair, which had felt so heartbreakingly like the last fight, or whether his lifestyle was catching up with him. Whatever the reason, he felt suddenly and overpoweringly exhausted. He sat down on his father's chair in a state of bone-wearied exhaustion. He sat that way for several minutes – not moving, not thinking. Just sitting. But feeling awfully young, while aching like an old man, Chuck found that he had stopped running, and finally allowed the crushing loss to wash over him.

**Never-to-be-spotted: Chuck Bass performing his first act as CEO of Bass Industries – putting his head down on his father's desk and weeping for a billion dollars gained and a life lost.

* * *

**

Blair had imagined spending the day curled up in bed, to tease the edges of her heartache and indulge in fantasies about a world where she and Chuck would intersect at the right time, in the right way. Because now she knew, with an intensity that burned like an open wound, that timing was everything. It was these thoughts that she planned to indulge during a day luxuriating in bed. It seemed like the least that the universe owed her after the intensity of the last few days, which had shrunk her world to the size of her apartment. Nothing existed except for Chuck and her, their feelings for each other, their inability to reach across the few feet that separated them. In fact, she wondered whether there was still an "outside", or whether it had disappeared entirely with Chuck's leaving.

But, it was over, and now was the time for recuperation.

Sensing, with that uncanny knack of hers (probably borne of spying rather than intense observational skills), that Blair needed a "mental health day", Dorota brewed her some weak tea in her favourite spotted mug – a mug Blair deemed too bulky most days, preferring instead a cup and saucer. Dorota knew better than to try to force Blair to eat when she was in this mood.

She had settled into a day of Lady Macbeth-style sighing when her bedroom door flew open and a huffing and puffing Dorota spilled in followed by a totally unruffled Aaron Rose.

"I told him, Miss Blair," Dorota panted. "I told him you were not seeing guests. But he had key."

"I'm family," Aaron intoned, staring at Blair in a particularly un-familial manner.

She self-consciously refused to pull her bedspread to her chin, refusing to allow him to ruffle her. "It's fine Dorota, you can go."

Dismissed by Blair, Dorota had no choice but to capitulate to Aaron's wishes, but she affixed him with a particularly stern glare as she left the room. Aaron smirked back at her. Blair seized this opportunity to wrap herself in a robe, but to her irritation, she could tell that Aaron noted that as well.

"Shouldn't you be in Brooklyn making group masturbation installation pieces that only you and your mom will ever see?"

"Probably. Shouldn't _you_ be plotting seditious revenge fantasies against unsuspecting freshmen?"

Blair smirked. At least he was an improvement on Cabbage Patch. It suddenly dawned on Blair how singularly self-involved she had been for the last few weeks; she had no idea what was happening in Serena's life. In the intensity of her focus on Chuck, she had lost sight entirely of those other figures in her life.

"Did Serena send you?" Aaron's face registered surprise before he hid once more behind his posy scene-ster façade. For all her self-involvement, Blair was a master at reading people – what deft manipulator wasn't? "Unless S finally grew immune to your two-timing, I'm too artistic for my face, but not too artistic for my father's chequebook ministrations?"

Aaron's twitch showed her that she had found a sore spot. But he quickly mastered himself. "Strange that she didn't tell you. Unlike Serena to be so untrusting - I mean, she told me everything about you. _Everything_."

Blair felt her face redden. The sense of being exposed by the artist's eyes was disconcerting.

"No, my father rang me, wanted me to make sure that you were okay with he and Eleanor extending their honeymoon."

Blair shrugged distractedly. "What difference does it make to me? As long as it keeps Eleanor out of my hair, I'm happy."

Aaron grinned at her, not feeling any need to break eye contact, or better – to leave her alone to her moping. That vaguely predatory look was back on his face, and although it made Blair uncomfortable, she had always enjoyed male attention. After the fight with Chuck, she felt particularly brittle, in need of some gentle treatment. Surprised at herself, she idly rubbed the base of her neck, allowing her robe to fall slightly off her shoulder. When Aaron's eyes travelled over her body, she felt a thrill of vindication. But even now, she felt slightly guilty – thinking of the helpless way that Chuck had rubbed her tears from her cheeks.

That's over now, she reminded herself.

She noticed that the young artist's eyes were still upon her. "What are you doing today?"

Aaron seemed surprised that she had spoken. In his mind, he had separated her into each of her visual elements: the vermillion lips, the long brown curls, the deep brown eyes, and the curve of the breastbone. Looking at her through artist's eyes, he was shocked to find that she was gazing at her with the fierce determination that those who are desperate to get over something wear. He knew that look; he wore it himself.

"I'm making you lunch at my studio."

Blair nodded imperiously. She would get over Chuck yet.

* * *

After three feverish nights of rifling through Bart's papers and never once leaving his office, Chuck Bass had pushed passed exhaustion, devastation and resentment and had reached a point of blissful white noise, where nothing reached him.

Something had come upon him after the cathartic sobbing three evening before; with a throbbing head and stinging eyes, Chuck had looked around this room, where Bart had spent more time than he had in their penthouse, and where Jack Bass was slowly asserting his power. Chuck had hated this place, hated what it meant to Bart, hated that the man that could be affable and charming within this room could come home and rule as a tyrant. But most of all, Chuck hated the notion that this room could dust over, that any trace of Bart's footprint could be removed. At least, that it could happen under someone else's watch.

Chuck imagined sitting behind this desk, as he was now. But running the company that Bart had left him. Strangely, given his horror over the thought of anyone else changing one inch of the office, Chuck could imagine ripping down this stifling mahogany, of getting rid of these hard edges. If he had his way, the entire room would have a flame-thrower taken to it. Because as long as Chuck was at the helm, Bart's footprint could not be erased, or so that letter had said – that wretched letter that had started Chuck's horrible descent into the decadence of Asia. That had terrified him to the bone and sent him running, even from Blair.

Blair.

Thinking the name still wounded him. His feeling of loss, and then the guilt that came when he realized that he felt the loss of Blair more acutely than he had felt the loss of his father had fuelled part of the frenzy of the last few nights. Perhaps it was because those few moments when his father had looked at him and seen someone he could be proud of occurred under Blair's gaze. And now, as she had predicted, his emotions reared against her, bucked any notion of sympathy or empathy, and instead came to the irrefutable conclusion that she herself had articulated: "Love is B.S."

But in those secret places inside of him, which he rarely acknowledged: where the resentment of his father was translated into a desperate longing for approval, where his heart ached to be taken into the Van Der Woodsen household, where he wondered whether Nate would ever speak to him again; with those unspeakable thoughts, lay the most important one. That she was right: that until he could figure out how to express his feelings for her, he had no business in her house. And there was another thought, one that he barely dared look at, but it whispered in his blood so that he could no more notice it nor deny it as he could his own pulse.

_One day I will be worthy of her._

And so, three nights ago, he had lifted his head, taken a deep breath, and had woken up Bart's assistant. After Raoul had figured out who was talking to him, and had been repeatedly assured that he was not having a horrible nightmare, Chuck finally got to business.

"I want you to tell me everything: every project that my father was working on, every dollar that passed across his desk the last few years, and most of all – every single decision that Jack Bass made in his tenure in Sydney. Can you do that for me?"

"So this is definitely not a dream?" the sleepy man whispered, hopefully.

"We both know that if you were dreaming I'd be standing in front of you wearing backless chaps and performing a cowboy striptease. So now get to the office before I fire you."

Raoul was definitely awake now. "Yes, Sir."

"Oh – and Raoul. If you get here within the hour with some coffee, I will give you a raise."

Chuck couldn't be sure, but he imagined that there was a Raoul-shaped outline where Raoul had stood seconds before. Sure enough, he arrived half an hour later with eight packets of No-Doze and a thermos of black coffee. To business.

So for the last few days, he and Raoul had gone through paper after paper, and despite his initial bouts of narcolepsy, Chuck had to hand it to him: Raoul was an invaluable source of knowledge. He had already fired and re-hired him five times in the last sixty hours, but Raoul showed no sign of bitterness. To the contrary, he seemed thrilled to have his late boss's son under his tutelage. And for his part, Chuck had never focussed for so long, or drunk so little in his life.

Raoul was on one of his semi-regular coffee runs, when Chuck heard the door open. He was sitting on the floor, surrounded by documents, and he felt fairly certain that his head was about to explode. Chuck had always had a flair for numbers, but the millions of dollars that he had to account for were swimming in his vision, and his head was pounding a little more strenuously than usual. When he heard the door bang shut, he didn't even look up.

"Raoul, remember to call my accountant tomorrow. I want to know how to access my inheritance, and I also want the payroll staff to give me a disclosure of Jack-ass's salary. My P.I. is on the way to Sydney as we speak…"

"Trying to find some dirt on me, Chuck?"

Of course, it was bound to happen. Chuck had mobilised a large number of key staff over the weekend, and had been rather noisily pulling certain files that were under Jack's control. It shouldn't have surprised him that much. But right there, sitting on the floor, Chuck felt suddenly like a small child, found colouring the office's walls in crayon.

"Why, is there dirt to find?"

Jack Bass looked around at the paper carnage in the room, and Chuck was fairly certain that his eyes lingered on the restored photographs and the ugly slab of wall. Suddenly bashful, Chuck felt like these gestures, done so defiantly over the hectic weekend, were incredibly juvenile. When he clambered to his feet, he could have sworn that Jack smirked slightly, but soon enough, his face was back to the affected concerned look that Chuck knew only meant trouble.

"What are you doing here?"

Jack veered at the last minute away from Bart's chair (intuiting, perhaps, that Chuck would have thrown a swing at him if he had dared to sit there), and instead sat at one of those offensive "friendly" chairs. He gestured for Chuck to join him. Of course, there was no way Chuck was going to do that, so he found himself standing awkwardly in the centre of the room, with arms crossed. It was probably Jack's intention that they have a heart-to-heart, but the visual was more reminiscent of a dressing-down in the principal's office than an interview on Oprah.

"Well," Jack said, seeing that Chuck wasn't going to join him. "I came here to put an end to this."

"An end to what? My father wanted me to run his company – and seeing that he couldn't stand you, it seems unlikely that he would settle with you."

Jack leant against the table, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers framing his face in a pose of understanding. It was as if he had read a book _Dealing With Your Snotty Ward_ and was trying to "reach" his "troubled" nephew through sympathetic body language. But Jack and Chuck were too alike for Chuck not to notice the metallic glint in Jack's eyes.

"You know how much I care about you," Jack began.

"Of course; you care about me so much that you only come to make amends when there is inheritance on the table. I'm surprised you even allowed my father's body to cool before you swooped in to take over his company."

"Your _father_," Jack placed the slightest sarcastic emphasis on this word. "Did not have your best interests at heart when he put you in charge of this company. It may have seen like a nice gesture…in the circumstances…but Bart was a manipulator. He wanted you to be shackled to him forever – to follow in his emotionally stunted footsteps - " Chuck was shaking with barely contained anger at these words. "This is a place for grown-ups. And you are still a child."

Chuck could scarcely breathe through his fury. "I stopped being a child the instant that my father died," he spat.

Jack held his gaze. "All right. You may have a point. But now you have the chance at a childhood. I'm giving you that chance. I know I haven't always done right by you, but I'm doing right by you now."

It was cruel really, holding out the childhood card. Even through his fury, the thought of what Jack was offering him was tantalising. When he was a child, his nanny had read to him from _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_. When Chuck had travelled to London for the first time – with his father on a business trip, which basically amounted to being alone – he had stood, now a fourteen-year old, in front of Lewis Carroll's diary in the British Library and read the first fledgling lines of the book. Apparently, he had been spinning a yarn for his niece as they sat in a dinghy in a river. Even at that age, when Chuck had found his own equivalent of the rabbit hole in drugs, alcohol, and partying, he was moved near to tears by the words in the journal.

There had been a line in that precious book, lost somewhere along the way, in some move or other, or perhaps packed up with Chuck's mother's things, when Bart had finally consented to remove any trace of her from his house. The words came back to Chuck as Jack Bass tormented him with his tempting offer:

_I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle._

But there was nothing puzzling about Chuck's situation right now. He could not fold up those feelings that tore through him right now. He couldn't set aside his anger at Jack, and agree to join him as a family. For the first time, Chuck was sick of make-believe. He was sick of mind-altering states. If he was on the other side of the looking glass, he strained to come back to reality, and find something with substance, something, which lasted longer than the night. He couldn't answer Alice's question – he never had been able to, and the words shook him now as much as they had at fourteen, as much as they had at four. But one thing he knew for sure was that he was not a child, and could not agree to be Jack's child. For better or worse, he had stepped back into the cold expanse of reality. And there was no stepping back through the looking glass.

"We're not a family, Jack," Chuck said, not without a little sadness. "And I am not your son. My father left me this company, and I'm going to run it."

Jack couldn't hide his agitation. He leapt to his feet and began pacing in front of Chuck, stepping over the paper and pens that littered the ground. "Your _father_ didn't care enough for you to give you a guardian in the event of his _death_…"

Chuck crossed his arms. "Well he obviously didn't see you as a contender."

"No," Jack said, smiling suddenly – a Cheshire cat grin, as it were. "But your mother did."

In times of danger, the body sends signals down the spine to release adrenaline. It is fight or flight: the body is ready to run away from or to mercilessly attack the perceived threat. At that instant, Chuck knew without any doubt that no matter what he said, Jack Bass was a threat. He knew it, and it wasn't merely bitterness and grief that told him that. It was his very body sending signals down his spine: _do not trust this man._

"What are you talking about?"

"I didn't want it to be like this," Jack said, unconvincingly. "I wanted you to choose to come around to my thinking. I wanted to offer you the chance to have a family. I tried to convince you – I even asked Blair to help me convince you. But I see that you're just as stubborn as Bart. Your mother's will stipulated that in the event of her own death – and Bart's – custody of you would pass to me. You're not yet eighteen, and Bart's silence on the issue has guaranteed that your mother's will must be observed."

Chuck's hands balled into fists. "You cannot stop me from running Bass Industries. I'll be eighteen in a few weeks, and the second I turn eighteen your pathetic attempts to steal this from me will amount to nothing."

Jack's smirk was malicious. "Do you really think that the Board will choose you over me? You're not the only one with a P.I., kiddo. Not that I need the list of your _many_ indiscretions to convince the Board that you're not up to the job. They've been privy to most of your exploits, and more than once Bart had to cover-up your antics to protect the reputation of Bass Industries. I've already spoken to them – and the general consensus was _relief_ that you wouldn't be able to damage the company any more than you already have. By the time you turn eighteen, it will be too late."

"You're not taking this away from me."

When he replayed the scene in his head, Chuck would be convinced that he said this forcefully, that he had looked Jack in the eye and positively spat those words at his face, so that he recoiled from the force of them. But, in reality, they came out barely above a whisper. There was something pitiful about the line. Something desperate. Jack's face softened slightly, but his words were still harsh.

"You've inherited a billion dollars – why don't you go and buy yourself another club where you can snort as much coke and do as many women as you can. You're not up to this, Chuck. And I've been preparing for this day longer than you."

With his pulse pounding in his ears, Chuck realized that he'd lost. There was nothing that Jack had said that wasn't true. There was no option but to retreat. But he was Chuck Bass – and there was no way he was letting Jack have the last word. He walked up to Jack, taking his time, savouring this feeling of betrayal, so that he would never forget the way he had been treated, so that he would never feel less venomous towards the man who had taken away all that Chuck had to hold on to. When he spoke, only inches from Jack's face, his voice did not waiver, but was cold and calculating.

"This is not over. I will take you down."

"One day you're going to have to face the fact that there are forces stronger than you, and that you just have to accept it. I hope that you will one day be mature enough to have a relationship with me – to see that I am doing what's right."

"And one day you're going to have to face the fact that your son hates you."

And for the first time, Chuck said it out loud. Ever since the day he had read the letter that Bart had left him, Chuck had refused to articulate the awesome shock that had come upon him when he finally had the answer he had been waiting for.

That question had defined every waking moment of his adolescence: what was the cause of this ceaseless disapproval of Bart's? What had he done, in the short years he had been alive, to incur the wrath he'd been forced to live with for so long?

But like all great truths that one can hunger for, it was a horrifying burden to carry, especially for someone like Chuck, who turned his back on all that was heavy. If Chuck was honest with himself, he would have to admit that part of the reason he had found it so difficult to accommodate the truth of his paternity was because of the strangeness of the cliché: this was the sort of thing that happened between the pages of books; this was the sort of thing that was enacted on a silver screen. It was only now, when the first utterance would have the most palpable impact on its audience, that Chuck found a way to utter the only words he knew would hurt Jack.

Jack's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline, Chuck's furious face still close to his. "So now you're willing to acknowledge that I'm your father."

Chuck smiled grimly, elated to see that he had hit his mark. "My father is Bartholomew Bass – you're just the guy who fucked his wife." With that, Chuck turned around. But before he had taken more than a couple of steps, he turned around to Jack's speechless face. "Which reminds me..."

Outside of all sorts of delicious memories involving Blair and several outrageous acts that they had performed during their time together, punching Jack in the face was possibly the most satisfying feeling of Chuck's life.

* * *

Aaron was surrounded with vegetables at his kitchen bench, and Blair mused that the bench-top looked like an artist's palette: red, yellow and purple, the capsicum, tomatoes and aubergine took on the look of splashes of paint. He didn't seem to use a cookbook, but was guided by a colour and form. She had never understood Serena's attraction to the two-timing scoundrel (that was much more Blair's taste than her friend's), but now she understood; what wasn't to desire about a man who could control colour. She'd have to find out from Serena what had gone wrong between them since Buenos Aires. Knowing the impulsive Van Der Woodsen, it was probably to go running back to Cabbage Patch.

Allowing Aaron to continue his earnest, if haphazard, cooking, Blair walked around the apartment. Every now and again, taking an instant away from her Upper East Side princess daydreams, Blair imagined instead living in a house like this. Once, she had dreamed that Nate would be the man she married, but after that had proven impossible, she had imagined that eventually – her fixation on Chuck notwithstanding – she would fall into the comfortable embrace of a wealthy older man, who would support her in the manner to which she had become accustomed.

She never imagined marrying Chuck; she longed to hold him, her body ached for him, but she could not envisage a reality where she and Chuck would stand in front of all their friends and proclaim their love for each other. Her experiences with Chuck were full of sting. And if she dared open herself to the possibility that they had a future like that together, she knew that he would find some new and cruel way to destroy it. And so she packed up the image of him in a tuxedo at the other end of the aisle to her. She packed up the sound of laughter and a child balanced on Chuck's shoes in an imitation of walking. She packed up every thought of the future, and closed a mental door.

It was strangely freeing, the feeling of locking a fantasy out of reach. In the cavernous space that remained of her fantasy-world, there was suddenly unending space. As a child, her father had read to her from _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_, which even now had pride of place on her bookshelf. Looking around at the art that invaded every spare inch of Aaron's loft, she felt lines from that beloved story returning to her. _Through the looking glass_, Blair mused, as the smell of acrylic paints filled her nostrils and installation pieces made of pure light dazzled her.

She had a beautiful old book of _Alice in Wonderland_. It had even caught Chuck's eye once, during that blissful week when they planned to go to Europe. He was being…well…silly that day. It was a very un-Chuck posture, but she had loved how he joked gently and jumped on her bed to kiss her. He had seemed so happy that day, and she had been convinced that they had a chance to make real those fantasies she had been having in spite of herself. His finger had paused on the spine of _Alice in Wonderland_, but he hadn't commented. He just seemed older somehow, and his jokes had died in his throat.

"What's wrong?" she had asked.

Chuck shrugged, his long fingers still tapping the spine of the book, before distracting her with intense kisses, until all thoughts of his past had fled from her mind. Even then, he had hidden things from her. He never spoke about his childhood, about his family, and she had wondered whether his mother (whom she knew was dead, but knew nothing more of) had read to him from the book. She had even brought him an antique copy of the book – planning to give it to him as a gift in Europe. But she thought better of it at the last minute, afraid that she had misread him and that he would laugh at the gesture. Even now, the book was hidden under her bed. Still wrapped.

She remembered how her father would read aloud from the book, and how even now, when she read certain passages, feeling nostalgic for the past, she was moved to tears by certain lines.

_The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. _

_'Who are you?' said the Caterpillar. _

_This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, 'I — I hardly know, sir, just at present — at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.' _

_'What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. 'Explain yourself!' _

_'I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, 'because I'm not myself, you see.' _

_'I don't see,' said the Caterpillar._

_'I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very politely, 'for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.'_

Now that she thought of it, none of her fantasies about the future were ever really about _her_. They were about whom she would marry, what she would do, but not what kind of person she would be. It was not about being happy, it was about being admired – or so it was in her daydreams. Maybe that is why she never imagined a future with Chuck; from the outside, he would be an inappropriate choice. She hoped that wasn't the case, but like Alice, she had no idea who she was.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I think of your art?"

Aaron looked up. "No," he said simply.

Somewhere along the way of her musings, he had conjured a lavish feast. He gestured that she should join him at the table. "Why not?"

He served her generously, and her stomach recoiled at the thought of eating all this delicious food. He tipped his head to look at her appraisingly. When she'd asked, she hadn't expected a response, having gotten use to Chuck's reticence when it came to personal questions. But Aaron didn't seem to mind the questions. Of course, Blair reminded herself, her new stepbrother was an artist, and artists love nothing better than talking about themselves.

"It doesn't matter what you think of any of the pieces in here. That's not why I made them. I wanted to capture a feeling – a moment. And you can't give a reason to a moment. So I can't say that I painted that, or made this for the purpose of gaining your approval. All I can do is ask myself whether I captured it properly."

"Wow," she breathed. "That was quite a line of crap."

She was interested by what he was saying, relieved to find that some people were capable of really _talking_. But, she didn't know him well, and she didn't know whether some huge disaster had caused the end of his relationship with Serena. Also, it seemed a little too convenient that after the dissolution of their relationship, he should just happen to come to Blair to check on how she was doing. She probably could have done with a bit of help when Chuck was under her roof. Nonetheless, it was true that she needed a friend right now – better yet, a friend that she had no history with.

He laughed. "I know - impressive, wasn't it?"

Blair suddenly felt rather hungry. "Can you pass me more of the ratatouille?"

They wiled away the afternoon lazily, and never once did Blair feel the urge to excuse herself to the bathroom. And when Serena rang her mobile phone, Blair surreptitiously ignored her call. She wanted nothing to do with her own past. It was time to pass through the looking glass, away from reality and towards something that lay in the periphery of her vision.

* * *

"Hey man," Chuck said quietly. "Sorry for being a douche-bag for the last few months. Do you mind if I move in with you? Oh. And can you help me topple my evil birth-father – you remember Uncle Jack, right? – so that I can take my rightful place as the CEO of Bass Industries. Oh. And I also told that hot waitress in Bangkok that you were a transvestite to stop her from hooking up with you. I'm sorry about that as well."

It sounded good to him. Now if he could just muster the bravery to knock on Nate's door, then everything should just fall into place. All he had to do was knock on the door.

So why was it so difficult?

Chuck went over the facts. Nate had been the only one to go to Bangkok to find him, and while there Chuck had: been in a drug-hazed orgy of sex and amphetamines, considered drowning himself in a shower, tried to punch Nate, _been_ punched by Nate, left his best friend stranded in the holiday house he had abandoned, come back to New York without telling him, had crashed a party full of Nate's closest friends, had been an obnoxious ass, and had caused Nate's dear friend and ex-girlfriend to collapse in a heap, before (for all Nate knew) disappearing into the night to see if he could still catch the late show at Victrola.

Ok, so there were a few loose ends that needed tying, but hadn't he and Nate always been able to figure things out? Hadn't Nate helped Blair keep him upright at his father's funeral, hadn't Nate forgiven him for sleeping with Blair in the first place – even given his blessing at Bart and Lily's wedding? In fact, hadn't Chuck tried to loan Nate's family money in their time of need, and hadn't he tried to protect Nate from vengeful Skulls and Bones pricks who were hot for his blood – and hadn't Chuck stood by Nate through his father's ordeal, never once considering disassociating himself from his best friend (as Bart had tried to urge him to do)? Surely on some level, Nate must know that his friendship with Chuck was for life. At least, Chuck sorely hoped that it was.

With a deep breath, Chuck lifted his hand to knock on the Archibald's front door, and with all the strength he could muster, he knocked on the door.

Except, he didn't. At the last instant, when Chuck's fist was in flight, the front door opened, and a very shocked Nate stood where wooden entryway had been. In short, Chuck punched Nate in the face.

Not an amazing start.

"What the hell was that?" Nate spat.

Chuck looked at Nate, wide-eyed. "I was trying to – I mean, the door was closed. I hadn't knocked yet…"

But suddenly, the pressure of the conversation with Jack in the early hours of the morning, and the fact he hadn't slept for days, compounded with the dawning realization that Nate may never speak to him again caused something in Chuck to crack. At this point he could have gone either way, but there had been too many tears over the last few days. Nate glowered at him, arms crossed across his chest.

Not knowing what else to do, Chuck laughed. And he laughed. He laughed until his ribcage ached and he was bent double. Knowing that he was making it worse, but unable to stop, he laughed helplessly on the Archibald's stoop. Eyes streaming with laughter, he looked up to see whether Nate had slammed the door in his face. But to his shock, his best friend had also been taken over with helpless laughter, and was sliding down the doorframe, unable to stay upright. Chuck joined him at floor-level, sitting on the front step.

When he had caught his breath, Chuck looked at Nate – who was, as usual, the glowing picture of good health. That level of healthy living made Chuck sick, but he was filled with warmth for his friend, who now sat pathetically next to him.

"I came to apologise."

"You have a hell of a way of doing it."

After a second fit of laughter, Nate's eyes fell on Chuck's suitcase, which he had been living out of for a long time. He still had a lot of clothes stored at the Van Der Woodsen's house, but, determined not to return there asking for favours, Chuck had been forced to constantly buy new wardrobes. His possessions were scattered over the city – some were still in Blair's guest room. The battered suitcase was a constant reminder that he was stateless – a glorified hobo in designer loafers.

"So I guess you didn't just come here to apologise."

Chuck dropped his eyes to his shoes. "Blair kicked me out. And I was staying at Bass Industries, but Jack kicked me out of there. Oh, he's also my legal guardian. And he's taken over as CEO. And I punched him. Oh, and he's my father."

Nate seemed dazed. And Chuck stared at him, trying to hide how important what Nate next said would be. He knew that they had issues that needed to be seen to and he knew that their friendship had changed forever. But right now, he needed some sign that Nate hadn't given up on him – that _someone_ hadn't given up on him. Also, having just blurted out his deepest secret, Chuck felt suddenly extremely exposed. He had never envisaged what it would feel like, telling his friends that he wasn't Bart Bass's son. Now that he had said it, with that swoop in the stomach that accompanied disclosure the first time, he felt nothing.

Nate stood up. "You've been a real son-of-a-bitch, you know." Chuck nodded mutely. "And I have just the person you need to talk to."

Chuck was still sitting on the stoop, uncertain what Nate was getting at. They appeared to be going somewhere. When Nate offered him a hand up, he took it purely because he had no idea what was going on. Nate stepped out of his house, all the way onto the street, and started striding up the street. But, after a few metres he turned around.

"You should put your suitcase in your usual room first."

Nodding nonchalantly, but with heart pounding in his head, Chuck threw his case under yet another bed, in yet another house. They'd find a home yet, he supposed. But in the meantime, he had to run to catch up with Nate. And Chuck Bass didn't do running.

* * *

"You know," Chuck complained, "if I'd known you were taking me to Brooklyn, I would have slept on the street."

"So we've moved passed the whole 'thanks for taking me in, Nate' stage, and moved on to the complaining?"

Chuck sat on a stool, looking around at the obnoxious sunflowers that were scattered around the room in an attempt to make things look "friendly". He hated the haphazard throwing together of any kind of rubbish in place of furniture, and this gallery-cum-coffee shop was giving him a headache. He was also acutely aware that Vanessa was throwing him filthy looks from behind the counter as she brewed coffee with more aggression than was really necessary. Chuck knew that it was only because of whatever Nate had whispered in her ear after kissing her in greeting that she was refraining from ripping out Chuck's tonsils and wearing them as a hat.

Between Serena and Nate, there would be no one left in the Upper East Side before long. Slumming was cute the first time, but both of them had gone in for second rounds. Chuck sat miserably at the counter, playing with sugar packets and generally scowling at the lengths he was having to go to to get back into Nate's good graces. For his part, Nate seemed to be enjoying himself.

When Vanessa threw the coffee cup at him, spilling half of his cappuccino on the saucer, Chuck sighed heavily. Nate was definitely enjoying himself at this point. Taking on the air of a counsellor, Nate nodded at Vanessa.

"I brought Chuck here because I couldn't think of anyone better to give him advice than you."

Vanessa rolled her eyes. "The only advice I can give him is that he wears more purple than any straight man in the history of the universe. And that he's pure scum."

Nate fixed puppy-dog eyes on her face, and Chuck felt his stomach turn. "Vanessa, you're the smartest person I know." Now Chuck was definitely queasy. "And Chuck is my best friend." Chuck perked up slightly. "He needs your help; he's been through a rough time. Can you just listen?"

Vanessa exhaled through her teeth, and fixed her eyes forty-five degrees away from Chuck's face. She took off her apron, threw it at Nate, who was grinning at her, and sat down on a stool next to Chuck. Neither of them would have admitted it, but between his purple shirt and her yellow jeans, they looked as if they had gotten dressed with each other in mind. Both of them wore their attitude like an accessory, and Nate knew that between Vanessa's pig-headed rectitude, and Chuck's general pig-headedness, they were destined to hate each other. But not because they were incompatibly different – rather, because they were too similar, and too proud. Nate wistfully wondered whether he couldn't nudge them towards grudging respect.

Gazing ruefully at Nate, Vanessa sat in front of Chuck. "Talk," she ordered.

Chuck opened his mouth to say something about not confiding in the "help", but at that moment, he looked at Nate's face. There was something in that look, the way that Nate's eyes gazed at Vanessa's (admittedly) pretty face. Nate was in love with her, Chuck realized. And the thought that his best friend had found love made Chuck…happy. That he was capable of feeling happy for someone else shocked Chuck more than he was willing to admit.

_I am happy for Nate_.

Chuck tried out the phrase in his head. He didn't hate the way it sat there, alien on the dark and brooding landscape. He was someone who was happy for his friend when his friend found someone to love (even if that _someone_ was from Brooklyn). He may not have been able to find an answer to the question to the question Alice posed to herself in Wonderland, but at least he had the beginnings of one: _I am someone who is happy for his friends_.

So, shocked by his own capacity for happiness, Chuck didn't complain, and rather explained everything to Vanessa – at least, the parts that concerned Jack and the company. When it came to Blair, well, some things were private. And he wouldn't have known where to begin with that.

"What I am about to tell you does not leave this room. This goes for you too Nate. No one outside of Lily, _Jack_, Nate and myself know my secret, and no one else can know. Do you understand?"

"Got it," Vanessa said. Chuck glared at her flippancy. "I understand, Chuck."

In spite of herself, Vanessa was drawn into the story. She had never admitted it to Dan or Nate, but she was fascinated by Chuck Bass. When she'd been filming that documentary on the lives of the rich and the shameless, there had been something captivating about Chuck on-screen. A modern-day Mephistopheles – hadn't that been how Noah Shapiro from the _Paris Review_ had described him to Dan? There was so much decadence, so many sharp edges, in the boy that the auteur in Vanessa couldn't ignore.

And now, to find out that Chuck Bass had been born as a result of an illicit affair between Constance Bass and Bart Bass's own younger brother – well, it was too perfect. It irked her that Chuck refused to provide details; he seemed to have simply learnt about his paternity at the reading of his father's will – in a letter written by Bart Bass, that Chuck was also unwilling to share – only to run away to Bangkok. Now that the prodigal son had returned, he was embroiled in an Oedipal struggle against his birth father over the estate of his adoptive-father, slash uncle. Although, Bart had never adopted Chuck, a fact that seemed to deeply affect Chuck. Something closed in his face when he explained that Bart had simply bought off his brother by sending him away to Sydney when he had found out – somewhere around Chuck's seventh birthday, when _Uncle Jack_ had stopped visiting.

Chuck's fine features did not give away any particular emotion as he told this story. He could have been recounting the plot of a film or novel that hadn't particularly captivated him. There was only one moment when Chuck betrayed any discernable emotion:

"So what you need is a plot – isn't that kind of Blair Waldorf's area of expertise."

At the very mention of Blair's name, Chuck had flinched. "Blair and I aren't on the best of terms. I'd prefer to keep her out of this."

Vanessa and Nate exchanged a glance at this (as the story had progressed, Nate had moved behind Vanessa, and put his arms around her), but didn't comment. She decided that she'd pump Nate for information later.

Once Chuck had said all that he was willing to say, he looked at Vanessa challengingly. "Well, any brilliant insights you'd like to share?"

"Actually, a few," Vanessa said sniffily. "So your problem is that your…that Jack will have no difficulty in convincing the Board that you're a no-good miscreant with no morals and even less intelligence."

Chuck raised an eyebrow at Nate, but had to concede her point. "Essentially, yes. And don't feel like you should pull your punches just because I confided my darkest secrets to you."

Vanessa ignored his sarcasm. "So basically, your problem is trying to convince them that they're wrong about you. Obviously, people that know you will agree one hundred per cent with your uncle…father…whatever – with _Jack's_ assessment."

"None taken," Chuck muttered.

"Hey – I'm just telling it how it is," Vanessa grinned. "But you know that no matter what everyone says, you still have a place on the Board, and you are the public face of the company. I've read the _New York Times_ enough to notice that. So if the people that know you, hate you – then they're not going to be convinced by you telling them that you've changed (if you've changed). So you're going to have to reach out to the people who don't know you."

"What do you mean?" In spite of himself, Chuck was intrigued by her thinking. He stood up, pacing.

"Well, wasn't your dad…um…Bart – wasn't he being honoured by the Philanthropic Society that night Jenny crashed the fashion show? You have a bit of spare change to throw around. Invest in New York, give money to charity. Build yourself a new reputation and the Board will have to listen. And while you're at it, I can't believe that Jack Bass is squeaky clean. Do your thing – suss out the dirt. You'll find something. And when you do, there will be a new Golden Bass to take the reigns."

"I was just planning on having his jet shot down."

Nate grinned. "So – you kill people now?"

Chuck offered a small smile – remembering the conversation that Nate was referring to. There is something refreshing about a long-dead joke rekindled by an old friend.

"That's right – I strangle them with my scarf."

* * *

It was around this time that Blair began running.

It was a positively un-Blair activity, but there was something about the methodical leg pump and the bang-bang-bang of her heels on concrete that made Blair feel as if she was in control. It had been Aaron's suggestion; she had been helping him move things around his studio, where she was spending more time after school – now depressing because of Chuck's absence, Serena's distance and constant canoodling with Dan, and Nate's flat-out avoidance. She found herself alone with her sycophantic girl mafia, and felt suddenly very alone. Aaron was a welcome presence.

When she'd arrived at his apartment, she'd found him struggling with an enormous chandelier, sitting on the floor, whose jewels had been replaced with any number of brand-name products. On one prong, there would be a Nike symbol, on another a headless Barbie, and even an iPhone, which Blair had the sudden urge to pull off the artwork and claim for herself. She couldn't help but feel like it was sacrilege to make a statement against consumerism with the coolest gadget on the market. Nonetheless, she kept her opinion to herself and set herself to helping him hang it from a rafter.

"God this is heavy."

"It's not that heavy," Aaron panted. "You're just weak."

Of course, with that pronouncement, Blair had dropped her side of the chandelier and crossed her arms across her chest. "There is _nothing_ weak about Blair Waldorf."

Aaron rolled his eyes, sprawled on the floor with half a chandelier over his chest. "Do people seriously still refer to themselves in the third person?"

She stamped a foot. "I'm not weak."

Aaron's face softened. "You're too skinny."

Blair felt a brief moment of panic. Had Serena? No, surely Serena would never tell anyone about Blair's eating disorder. She hadn't even told Dan. There were some things that were sacred.

_Serena would never tell him._

With a start, Blair found that sentence popping into her head. But as she thought of her best friend – even though she was distracted by the glow of being back with her rightful mate – she was filled with warmth. She found with a start that she trusted Serena not to betray her confidence. She tried out the phrase in her head. _I trust Serena to keep my secrets_. It didn't feel like that Alice-type movement from big to small, it didn't feel like a change. Instead, it felt like Blair had chanced upon a side of herself that had always been there. If the caterpillar asked her now who she was, she would be able, at least, to say – _I am someone who trusts Serena to keep her secrets_. And Blair was filled with a pleasant feeling at the thought.

"Don't be ridiculous. There's no such thing as too skinny."

Aaron had extricated himself from the pile. "Seriously, Blair. Maybe you should…you know. Get outside, do some exercise. Make yourself strong. I mean strong on the outside – like you are on the inside."

It was ineptly put, and Blair thought that it was the poor delivery that made it sweeter. She knew that he had a point; years of abusing her body and starving herself had left her physically weak. As for being strong inside, this was spoken by someone who had no idea of the way she had collapsed over the toilet seat, sobbing over Chuck's abandonment. It was nice to be thought of as strong. But, it didn't ring as true as that sentence: _I am someone who trusts Serena._

When the chandelier was hung up from the rafters, Blair was awed. It was beautiful and threatening, and it seemed to fill the room with glinting lights. She thought that it was the light that may have been Aaron's greatest magician's secret. He had installed tiny lights at strategic points on the suspended artwork; it cast it's own threatening shadow, and it almost touched the ground.

"You like it," Aaron had said, staring intensely at her face.

"I thought that people's opinions don't matter," Blair said nonchalantly, used to Aaron's intense gaze.

"They matter when it comes to paying the rent."

He was right about that, of course. He had also been right about her. And so, unconvinced by her inner strength, she set herself to becoming strong on the outside. After one particularly gruelling work out, she had sat down on the Met steps and wolfed down a _sandwich_, Penelope had gaped at her.

"You're eating _bread_?"

Blair had been too exhausted to care that Penelope was staring at her as if she had grown a second head.

She actually viewed Chuck's school-skiving as a blessing, but Nate was acting strange around her – undoubtedly because Chuck was staying with him. It was the worst kept secret on the Upper East Side that Chuck and Nate were thick as thieves again. When she had asked Nate how Chuck was doing, Nate had been evasive and uncomfortable. Blair assumed that it was because Chuck was up to his usual tricks, and Nate didn't want to worry Blair. He'd been acting strangely ever since her collapse at Lily's house. When she'd asked Serena, whose eyes were (as always) trained on her phone and whose tone was distracted, she had simply said that Blair's collapse had wigged Nate out. And that he wasn't sure how to deal with it. So he was being a guy: ignoring it completely.

That didn't sound like Nate. And when they had been talking, Nate had only been evasive when the topic came around to Chuck. He had worriedly asked about her health, seemed genuinely pleased when she told him that she was feeling much better.

"So how is Chuck?" she'd asked nonchalantly.

Nate looked mildly panicked. "Oh. He's fine."

Blair scrutinised his face. He didn't seem to be tired – so obviously he hadn't been chasing Chuck down at questionable establishments. "Isn't he going to get into trouble for missing school?"

It was clear that Nate was straining for an exit. "No, he spoke to the principal…he's got enough course credit to graduate anyway."

Defeated, Blair sighed heavily. "It's his birthday soon – have you got anything planned?"

Nate was all but running away. "Yeah – I'll keep you up-dated."

_Great._ Blair couldn't shake the sense that Nate had been positively _aching_ to tell her something, but what it was she couldn't be sure. She assumed that it was about Chuck, but what it could be (that didn't require bail or a visit to the hospital), she couldn't be sure.

She had known that when she threw Chuck out of her house, that she had forfeited the right to know the intimate details of his life. That was the price she paid for her freedom, which had been hard-won. She hadn't seen him since the night they had fought. It would have been easier, perhaps, if she had been able to see him, to know that he wasn't out of control – or, if she was honest with herself, to see that he could not function without her. She knew that this wasn't the case; she'd read about his comings and goings in the _New York Times._ He seemed to be going from strength to strength, and the thought stung her. Was it possible that her presence had been holding him back in the same way that his had been tethering her?

It seemed that the newspaper was full of tales of her friends' exploits. Nate was oft to be seen on the cover of the business section; the Captain's impending trial guaranteed that most of the intimate secrets of the Archibald family were available for the feeding-frenzy that was Manhattan's rumour mill. No particular surprises there.

The surprising thing was the coverage of Chuck, whose excommunication from Bass Industries' top spot had been the focus of the most vicious gossip. Blair had ached for him, reading about Jack's gambit to win the Board away from him. Chuck's uncle had even leaked a few more _colourful_ stories from Chuck's adolescence. Blair was furious for him, and had at various times picked up her phone to text him. But at those moments, Aaron often warned her off. Several times, she had given her (abridged) version of the grand Chuck love affair, and Aaron had taken an "instinctive" dislike to the Bass heir. Her step-brother had, at times, wrestled her phone from her hand, when she felt her will weakening, and the urge to hear his voice near overtook him.

"He made his bed," Aaron said, grimly. "Now he has to lie in it."

She knew that Aaron could be clear-headed about this, when the fog of Chuck filled her head and pounded in her ears. She would never have guessed that the pretentious artist that she had warned Serena off could have become her confidante. She hadn't mentioned her fast-friendship with Aaron to Serena, convinced that her friend would be jealous, possessive, or worse – would stake her claim on Aaron. Take that from her, the way she had almost taken Yale. She still had no idea why they had broken up, but judging by Serena's very public displays of affection, it had something to do with Dan.

Nonetheless, since the original bad press, it seemed that Chuck had turned over a PR-leaf. He had no contact with the Board that she could tell – certainly, from what she had wormed from Serena, Lily hadn't seen him at any meetings, and was simply furious at Jack's ousting of him. The _Wall Street Journal_ ran a two-page feature on "Bass Dynasty Fractures" with a solemn picture of Lily facing off against Jack Bass. Blair couldn't help but inhale sharply at the sight of Jack Bass's striking resemblance to Chuck. She shouldn't have; all she needed to do was turn to the social pages to see Chuck at some charity event or another. She had even found a picture of him painting a run-down schoolroom. Blair had pored over that picture for hours, she was certain, and by the end she was fairly sure that she could see a slight tightness around Chuck's mouth as the children covered his favourite slacks in white paint. At least he hadn't had a complete personality transplant since leaving her house.

Blair was sitting on the steps outside of school (the Met was having yet another paint job) examining the latest Bass jaunt into philanthropy. The press had been disbelieving at first, but it seemed that Chuck Bass had indeed turned over a new leaf. And regardless of their opinion of him personally (which ranged from lovably bad boy to spawn of Satan), most of the reporters for the newspapers of note had to concede that the inner city public library had indeed needed new books, so who cares what the little swot's motivations were?

"Preparing clippings for Chuck's scrapbook?"

Dan hadn't realized that his words had come out quite so snidely until he had already said them, and seen Blair's wounded face. Mentally slapping himself on the forehead, he reminded himself that Gossip Girl had reported that Blair had thrown Chuck out of her house. Serena had alluded to the altercation, but didn't seem to have any details. She and Blair hadn't spoken for a while, Dan supposed.

There was something vulnerable and delicate about Blair as she sat with the broadsheet spread over her knees. Even though Dan noticed that she was not nearly as emaciated as she had been during the holidays, and she seemed healthier and more radiant than ever, he couldn't help but imagine that if he were to write Blair into a story, he would emphasise the sadness in her, the way she gazed so intensely at Chuck's picture. He already had a writer's sympathy for Chuck; having written him down, Dan felt a tacit ownership over the character, and he was quite a character.

Dan looked at the white bow securing her curls away from her face and felt a wave of sympathy for Blair. He tended to side with Vanessa, when it came to Blair Waldorf, thinking that she was a soulless control-freak serial-killer in the body of an Upper East Side princess. But, he had to concede that she was quite a character herself, and that during the whole wretched period after Bart's death, she had clung desperately to Chuck, throwing her whole weight backwards against the pull of gravity as Chuck dangled from the side of the cliff. There was something of a lioness about her; she so fiercely guarded her cubs.

There was something, well, perfect about Blair and Chuck as a couple – something that no one apart from a writer could see. When they were near each other, there was a sense of electricity in the air. And Dan was quietly convinced that they would combust, and the resulting blaze would either destroy them entirely, or take the other road. Where that road led, no one could know; it was, after all, Chuck and Blair. But one thing that Dan was certain of, was that neither of them would find an adequate replacement for the other. And so they walked around as two halves, and the effect was that of an amputee – the sickening sense of something missing that should be there.

So Dan softened his face, even as Blair glared at him. "If I'd known I would be talking to you, Brooklyn, I would have had a vaccination first."

"Always a pleasure, Blair." He paused, looking around for Serena. When he saw that she was, as usual, late, he sat next to Blair. "What are you doing?"

"I'm waiting for someone," Blair said evasively.

Dan decided not to push it. He racked his brain for a safe topic, and had to resist his temptation to talk about Chuck. "So, how's school?"

Blair really needed to work on hiding her displeasure. She sighed, tapping her feet. "School is school, Humphrey, who cares?"

"I heard you made valedictorian," he offered. "You must be happy about that."

She shrugged dismissively. "As long as it helps me get into Yale, it's fine. Nothing is more appealing than getting out of this city."

Dan looked around at the city contemplative. "I think I'll miss it."

Blair stared at her feet, shaken by the sight of Chuck living a life totally separate from hers. "Maybe that's because you have things keeping you here."

"You have your family," Dan said gently. "You have your friends."

"I don't think I have as many of those as you think," Blair said quietly.

This side of Blair, the side that spoke quietly and contemplatively – this was new to Dan. He had spoken to her like this once before, outside her mother's fashion shoot, when Eleanor had chosen Serena over her. Dan felt another wave of sympathy, but tried to obscure it. "You're feeling out of the loop?"

"Try out of the atmosphere – out of the solar system. Even Serena has been a total mystery to me. And…other people…haven't contacted me in a while."

"Chuck?" Dan didn't like side-stepping the _main thing_.

Blair grimaced. "I haven't spoken to him."

"Well," Dan shrugged. "I'm sure you'll talk to him at Nate's surprise party for him."

The instant the words came out of his mouth, and he saw the look on Blair's face, he knew he had spoken out of turn. To her credit, she kept her face calm.

"A surprise party for Chuck? I'm sure that will be very nice."

"Blair - " Dan started. But she had already sprung to her feet.

"There's my ride."

"Blair – wait. I'm sure he just hasn't - " Dan felt the words die in his throat – there was no point trying to reason with her. It was a fairly clear-cut snub. As he watched her run down the steps to the waiting Vespa, he realized with a lurch just who Blair had been waiting for. It was Aaron Rose.

* * *

The afternoon sun streamed through Dan's window as he and Serena luxuriated in bed, wrapped to the mid-waist in a sheet. Dan knew, with a sweet intensity, that when he was an old man, no matter how deep the ravages of age that would mark his face, no matter how bitterly he and Serena might part, these lazy afternoons when Rufus manned the gallery and Jenny hung out with Eric, leaving Serena and Dan alone, would be the most treasured of his youth.

Gazing at Serena's face, resting on his shoulder, he felt another wave of sympathy for Blair. He remembered the feeling of loving Serena so deeply and being unable to hold her, unable to run his fingers through her tangled waves of blonde hair. Unable to breathe the smell of vanilla that seemed to emanate from her no matter what she did.

"I saw Blair today," he said, suddenly, breaking the reverie that they had fallen into.

At the mention of her best friend's name, Serena felt a stab of guilt. "I have been such a bad friend to her lately," Serena admitted.

Dan traced a finger on Serena's bare shoulder. "I think I said something stupid. I mentioned Chuck's party to her."

Serena raised her head from his shoulder, leaning on her bent arm, and inadvertently making Dan ache at the sight of her naked upper half. "Why is that stupid?"

"She's not invited," Dan said flatly.

"What? Why wouldn't Nate invite her? I mean, I know that she and Chuck have had some issues, but not inviting her to his party seems a bit extreme."

"I thought he wasn't at hers?"

"She invited him," Serena said, lying back down on the pillow, and stoking Dan's chest. "He didn't come though. But at midnight he sent her a dozen roses. It was…well kind of sweet really. But really, after everything – Nate should know better than to cut her out of this sort of thing. She'll be hurt."

"Maybe you should talk to him?"

"Yeah, good idea." Dan struggled with his next comment for a while, watching the particles of dust catching the light. "She left with someone. Left school, that is. A few minutes before you arrived."

"Oh?" Serena began to run kisses over his neck. He had to struggle with his focus as his very obvious signs of arousal made his girlfriend smirk.

"She left with – Serena wait, I'm trying to tell you something. She left with Aaron Rose."

At the mention of her former paramour, Serena's face darkened. Dan knew that she and Aaron had not parted on good terms; sensing some slight and jealous of Dan, Aaron had left threatening messages on Serena's phone, had skulked outside the Palace, waiting for her to arrive home, waiting for her to leave. Very quietly, Lily had taken out a restraining order against the young artist, careful not to publicize it, lest Eleanor and her new husband find out. Dan himself had been drawn into some threatening altercations when school had come back. Eventually, Aaron had left them alone, fearful of Rufus's artistic retribution. Dan knew that part of the reason Serena had been so cagey with Blair over the past few months was because she felt awkward; Blair and Aaron were now related through marriage, and part of the reason that Aaron had left them all alone was because of the promise that no one would hear about his questionable antics.

Noting that Serena had gone quiet, Dan felt the urge to lighten the mood. "Even when his show was at my father's gallery, I still thought that he was the most coked up, quasi-urbane, pretentious wanker that I had ever come across [1]."

She let out a schoolgirl giggle. "Opinions you obviously never shared with your father."

"Dad hasn't been paying attention to anything much – always on the quest for some new artist across the country."

Serena nodded. She was well-aware of Rufus's extended trips. But now she was worried about Blair. She down-played it to Dan, but she had been quite afraid of Aaron after their break-up. "I feel like I should warn her about him. Regardless of what we promised."

Dan thought of Blair's small stature, her wide and fierce eyes, and the way she had tried to hide her pain at the mention of Chuck's name.

"I think that's a good idea," he said, before drawing her close to him for another lazy afternoon well spent.

[1] Adapted from Stephen Malkmus's "Post-Paint Boy".


	6. Chapter 6: Down the Rabbit's Hole

**Chapter Six:**** Down the Rabbit's Hole**

_Such is the formula set forth by Kafka somewhere in the diaries or letters. Franz couldn't quite remember where, but it captivated him. What does it mean to live in truth? Putting it negatively is easy enough: it means not lying, not hiding, and not dissimulating. From the time he met Sabina, however, Franz had been living in lies. He told his wife about non-existent congresses in Amsterdam and lectures in Madrid; he was afraid to walk with Sabina through the streets of Geneva. And he enjoyed the lying and hiding: it was all so new to him. He was as excited as a teacher's pet who has plucked up the courage to play truant. For Sabina, living in truth, lying neither to ourselves nor to others, was possible only away from the public: the moment someone keeps an eye on what we do, we involuntarily make allowances for that eye, and nothing we do is truthful. Having a public, keeping a public in mind, means living in lies. _

_- _Milan Kundera, _The Unbearable Lightness of Being

* * *

_

Once, when Chuck Bass was a young boy, years before he had discovered the comforts that mind-altered states could offer the adolescent male, he had stared at the one picture of his mother that he possessed. There is something precious about scarcity, and this picture he treasured even more because of its status as the sole image of the woman that Chuck idolised as the epitome of grace and beauty.

If a single element of the photograph had been changed, it would have been ruined. There was no possible alternative to the black and white image, the fiercely superior expression, exact curve of her hand that rested near her chin, and the angle that the photographer had chosen, even the far-off set of her eyes. If the frame was changed in the slightest, Chuck believed, the photo would be as valueless as an advert clumsily cut from a magazine.

He spent many afternoons staring at every angle of the shot, spinning tales of glamour that he thought would be fitting for the woman he called mother. One afternoon, however, he found with a start that he had soon come to the limit of his capacity to imagine; women were an abstract presence in his life, and even his beloved nanny had been dispatched when he was school-aged. And so he harboured an unquenchable fascination with women, their manners and their secretive ways.

Frustrated with the limits of his own imagined story, he had plucked together the courage to ask his father what Constance Bass had been like before she had died. Bart had been sitting on the black leather couch in the sitting room, a drink in hand. He found his father changed as of late. There was even less time than usual to pull Chuck onto his knee, to perhaps read aloud from _Alice in Wonderland_, although he barely expected it at this point. And so, when he asked about his mother, Chuck stood before him, one sock swimming around his ankle, the other pulled to his knee, waiting for his father to provide some kind of substance to the chimera he had created in his childish musings.

Bart thought for an instant, staring into the top corner of the room. "Your mother," he said slowly, "was beautiful, elegant, and cruel beyond understanding. And like all women, she hid all the secret parts of her away from me and never allowed me to know her at all."

At this point, Bart seemed to remember that his audience was a boy of no more than eight. Chuck preferred it when Bart didn't focus his eyes upon him; recently his eyes were flat when he looked at Chuck, and he grimaced when he heard Chuck's feet echoing up the hallway, his shoes squeaking on the wooden floor. Bart crooked his head to one side.

"Does that answer your question?"

Chuck nodded mutely, although he hadn't understood much of what Bart had said. He had been hoping for more, for some kind of story about his mother's kindness, her generosity, perhaps. He had not expected to hear the word "cruel" in the explanation. He knew that witches were cruel. He knew that queens with giant chessboards were cruel. The word made an ugly clanking noise inside his head, and did not accord with his mother's image framed with perfection.

"Remember something, Charles. You can never hope to understand anything about the dark places in other people's minds. And until you know someone completely, how can you trust them?" Chuck's eyes darted from left to right, worried suddenly that he would be expected to answer.

The silence extended. Squirming uncomfortably, Chuck finally offered: "You can trust me, Daddy."

Bart once more fixed his eyes on Chuck's slight figure. "You are too much your mother's son for that to be true."

Crestfallen, Chuck bit the inside of his mouth, hoping that his father would allow him to escape back to his room, regretting even broaching the subject. When it seemed that Bart had retreated once more into his head, Chuck turned to leave the room, but before he could make a getaway, Bart caught his wrist.

"I don't want to hear you ask about your mother again," he said, punctuating each word with a painful squeeze of Chuck's wrist.

Chuck nodded wordlessly and escaped back to his room and his framed picture. Even as the years passed, it remained his most prized possession.

Until, that is, he learnt of his mother's treachery with Jack Bass. Understanding suddenly that a lifetime of parental cruelty and negligence could be traced back to one indiscretion on behalf of a woman he had always tacitly idolised, Chuck found himself rebuking utterly his mother. Each of those cold phone calls, those thwarted attempts at bonding now lay on Constance Bass's beautiful head. With his youthful blinders now completely removed from his eyes, Chuck wondered whether Bart had kept her picture on his desk not as a tribute to an adored wife, but as a constant reminder of betrayal and the limits that each human beings puts on themselves. _Here you can reach, but the rest is off limits and mine alone_, Constance seemed to whisper. It sounded like him.

Chuck had left the photograph on his bedside table when he ran away. The picture no longer seemed so perfect; the shadows fell over his mother's face in a sinister way. But when he woke up in the Archibald's house, ten minutes shy of midnight, which would mark the beginning of his eighteenth birthday, Chuck had the sudden urge to see it again.

Instead, he tried to picture it in his head: the perfection of it, the beauty and elegance of the form. Unfortunately, he found that the image was tarnished and couldn't be redeemed. Left alone in the dark without the dream of his mother to keep his company - to elevate him above the mundane into a world of beauty and perfection, he summoned a sharper picture of an elegance that outstripped even that of his mother.

Blair Waldorf at the Snowflake Ball. Blair Waldorf as a debutante. Blair Waldorf at her seventeenth birthday. Blair Waldorf in a hundred different poses. And with those images, Chuck fell once more into a deep, but troubled sleep. So in some ways, Blair was with him when he turned eighteen.

* * *

Across town, another man was swimming in images of Blair Waldorf; Aaron Rose sat in his studio, appraising his latest piece.

In Buenos Aires, before Serena had unceremoniously dumped him for that _Humphrey_ creature, Aaron had been reading a book of flâneurie: where the artist or author would sit in a public place and contemplate the people passing by. These figures, unaware that they were being observed, would form the substance of a poem, a novel, or even an artwork. During the nineteenth century, the arcades of Paris had been full of fledgling flâneurs, determined to take in the city and its figures.

Aaron thought it was high time that Manhattan enjoyed a slice of Paris.

The premise was similar to that which he had used when Serena was modelling for him: a sensory Serena overload. A room full of life-sized Serena. There was, however, one key difference: Blair Waldorf had no idea that she was being filmed, photographed – chronicled, as Aaron liked to think of it. As she went about her life, entered her house, sat on the Met steps, Aaron was watching. She was an unintentional muse, and Aaron was captivated by her.

Soon enough, he would show her what it was to be surrounded by her: to be tormented by her image, suffused with the beautiful sight of her.

A sensory overload of Blair, he mused. With images of Blair flickering across his face, Aaron imagined the way he would unveil the Blair maze, before finally laying her down on the ground and possessing her completely. Tonight, he thought.

* * *

It wasn't that they'd had any plans to celebrate his birthday; it wasn't that. They never made plans and they had never spoken about the future except in the most abstract terms. So it wasn't as if they had sat down and spoken about what they would do on his eighteenth birthday.

So why did Blair feel as if she was spread across the ocean: paper-thin and dissolving in the wet?

Or maybe it was Chuck who was spread across a vast expanse. If she could find a way to make the world reflect the way it was between those two, she may have had him fill the sky. Who notices the clear blue sky, as long as it isn't falling? And who can ignore the rumbling threat of a furious storm spilling over onto your shoes, running down your exposed skin? So it was with Chuck, to Blair.

She had thought that it was possible to exorcise herself of this spectre of Chuck. But now that she had banished him from her house, she found that his ghost pressed upon her from each angle. Now that he was not physically near her, she couldn't help but seek out fragments of him – those newspaper articles that Dan had mocked her over, the skerrick of news that reached Gossip Girl, the reports of Lily, delivered through an unwilling and recalcitrant Serena.

Chuck haunted her lonely house, she thought. His ghost sniffed the rhododendrons that she put in the vase in the hallway. It wore a cardigan that she had brought for him, and it leant over her shoulder when she read the newspaper. She could close the door on it, and soon the sound of her heels or sneakers on pavement and the unseen anonymity of the outside world would surround her – and she would be free for a while. But then his ghost would open the door for her, and sit with her when she drank her tea.

It was pleasant in some ways, to have at least the vision of him here in the house with her. Apart from Aaron, who was growing increasingly suffocating as of late, Blair found herself suddenly and startlingly alone most of the time. But there were so many things that the spectral Chuck couldn't do for her: he couldn't inhale deeply the scent of her, run his hands over the length of her, or clutch her tightly enough to turn her arms even whiter with the painful force of it.

And recently she had been visited by dreams of Chuck actually dying. She would be standing at his funeral, sobbing and tearing at her clothes – making a spectacle of herself. And all of those friends who she felt so distant from lately would be standing around her, staring at her askance, not knowing who she was or why she cried for a boy she couldn't possibly have known.

"I loved him, I loved him," she would sob.

Soon enough someone would drag her away, she spitting like a wild cat and their faces as unmoved as statues.

Or she would follow who she thought was Chuck – she would call to him, begging him to slow down, to wait for her to catch her breath. She never saw any more than his back, but she knew it was Chuck. She would know that back anywhere. As she followed him, a sense of dread would fill her; what were they doing in a graveyard? Without turning around, he would lead her to that grave and then disappear. And she would live that feeling all over again, the grief of realising that he was lost to her forever, and the knowledge that she had no choice but to pull up the turf as if it were a blanket and to climb into the clods beside him.

The dreams would leave her slick with sweat, shaking, and desperate to call him. But then she would recall that he was moving on: moving away from her, and towards a future that was brighter in her absence. He didn't even need her to celebrate his eighteenth birthday – a birthday that she knew they would have spoken about if things had been different and they had been capable of conversations like that.

It wasn't that they had plans to celebrate his birthday; it was that missing this event drove home to her the other Big Events that she had missed, and those that she would miss in the future. Surely, if she'd been given the chance, she could have celebrated with him, could have thrown him a better party than Nate.

"Are you sure I can't ask Nate about it?"

Blair frowned at herself in the mirror, arranging her face in an irritated fashion – the effect wasted by the fact that she was alone in the house and speaking to her best friend over the phone. "I told you – _no_. It's not as if he's forgotten my address. If he didn't invite me, than Chuck obviously doesn't want me to come. It's fine. I'm _fine_."

Over the phone, Serena sat in her favourite spot in Central Park, shaded by the stone archways where she and Blair had forged that original peace agreement. "Well what are you going to do tonight?"

"Oh…you know," Blair said breezily, locked up with her ghost, far from the daylight that Serena enjoyed in the outside world. "Nothing in particular."

Serena hadn't quite known how to broach the topic of Aaron and Blair's friendship. But something in her conscience knew that she owed it to her best friend to warn her that Aaron may not be quite what he appeared. That underneath the skinny-leg jeans and the brooding face, there may be more lurking than a bored trust-fund baby. When she spoke, she used that same light tone that Blair had. "Do you have plans with Aaron?"

The silence extended.

"So what if I do?" Blair said, sniffing. "It's not like I have any other plans to fill my busy social calendar."

Another silence.

"Listen, B," Serena started awkwardly. "Aaron and I didn't exactly part on the best terms. He sort of…well…I guess he kind of stalked me. I know he's your step-brother, but you should…you should be careful."

The words had been spoken with nothing but the hope to protect and old friend. Serena knew that when she spoke these poorly expressed worries to her friend, that Blair would hear the real concern in her voice and be moved by the years of friendship that inspired them.

Of course, somewhere along the way, after time and space and electrical fields intercepted her words and presented them to Blair, the tone had changed, the meaning had been lost. When Blair spoke, it was with barely restrained anger.

"So what? You think that he's only being my friend as a way of getting back at you? I forgot that that the world revolves around Serena Van Der Woodsen."

Serena strained to keep the frustration from her voice. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm just trying to warn you that you may not know everything about Aaron – that you should hesitate before you trust him. I mean – he basically told me he was an alcoholic, and - "

"You're just jealous," Blair said accusingly. "You're jealous because you're back to slumming it with Humphrey and your precious artist enjoys my company more than yours. I bet he broke up with you, anyway."

Frustrated with her old friend, Serena's voice cooled and the words, when she spoke them came out steely. This had not gone the way she had hoped. "Listen. I'm sorry you're not invited to Chuck's party. But that doesn't mean you have to take it out on me. I'm just telling you to be careful. Is there anything else you need?"

Blair remembered with a start that she had been the one to call Serena. "Yes," she said primly. "I am leaving a gift for Chuck at your house. Could you give it to him? Preferably with a slap on the backside of the head?"

Serena fought a smile. "I will, B."

"Thank you."

When Blair hung up, she walked around her bedroom for a few moments, idly running her hands over her possessions: including that package salvaged form under bed. It was only polite; he had given her a gift on her birthday. Of course, if Blair was honest with herself, she knew that the present was more than just a polite gesture to mark an important birthday. Rather, it was a way to insert herself once more into his life, one that she had always felt as though she were meant to be in. But if the last few months had taught her anything, it was that there is no such thing as fate, but rather opportunities that collide with us at either the perfect or worse possible moment.

_Maybe in the future_, he had once said. But that was so long ago, and what had happened since, but an illustration again and again that we are nothing more than people passing by each other on a journey doomed to end. Blair knew with a grim certainty that she couldn't sit and wait for him for much longer, because eventually not moving in the least became moving backwards. So tonight, she felt that she had nothing left to lose, and she longed to pull him somehow to her side.

Although, of course, it was possible that he would open the gift, laugh at the juvenile gesture, throw it over his shoulder and continue ravishing some random slut.

She had indeed made plans with Aaron. He had something to show her at his studio. Truth be told, she was tiring of playing the artist's apprentice. There was something tedious about someone so convinced of his own brilliance. She wasn't sure whether it was the fear she felt at the thought of handing over the present that she had been so flippant about hours before when she had decided to give it to him, or whether Serena's warning was swimming in her ears and compounding with her own impression of Aaron's neediness, of his fixation.

Chewing her lip, she reached for her mobile phone.

_Hi A – Going to have to cancel tonight. Not feeling well. Raincheck – B. _

She couldn't have known it at the time, but the storm clouds now filling the sky had nothing to do with Chuck, but they were coming towards her, fast.

* * *

On the morning of his eighteenth birthday, Chuck woke up in a cold sweat.

For an instant, the images that had haunted his sleep stayed with him. He and Blair had been at Victrola – fitting, when you considered that the place was so dear to him because it was the site of the nascence of his relationship with Blair – but it was filled with carnival mirrors. Filled with pictures of Blair – reality and reality's rebuttal everywhere he looked – the room had seemed suddenly threatening.

"Come and find me," she said, her voice everywhere and nowhere, her hand on her hip.

"Where are you?"

"Over here."

But he couldn't find her. "I can't see you – I mean I can't see anything but you."

The hundred Blairs looked over their shoulders, scared suddenly. "Hurry."

"Where _are _you?"

"Chuck – _hurry_."

And then she was gone. No wisp of smoke, no magicians trick. She and her reflections were suddenly not there.

When Chuck jerked away, he felt foolish for his sweat and his heavy breathing. There was nothing impossibly threatening about the scene, and his anxiety was completely out of proportion to the substance of the dream. Nonetheless, he awoke to his first day of adulthood thrown, out-of-kilter, and slightly manic. Now he thought of it, he woke up that way most days.

"Happy Birthday, man," Nate said in an attempt at casual, which Chuck saw through immediately. Nate was a terrible actor. Nonetheless, Chuck played along to humour him – and as part of his new policy of being nice to Nate. It was hard to maintain, especially when he found himself jostled out of the Archibald's house and downtown to the Humphrey gallery. In the last few weeks, Chuck was convinced that he had spent more time in Brooklyn than he had in the entire course of his life in New York City.

Nate was flustered and full of lame excuses. "Mom needs me to come with her to visit the Captain – and Vanessa needs help at the gallery, so you're going to have to do me a favour, man."

"What do I look like – the help?"

Chuck scowled, in a foul mood after yet another pair of paint-spattered pants had been thrown in the trash, and a night of threatening dreams about Blair. He had come to directly blame Vanessa for each affront to his dignity that he experienced during his foray into philanthropy. He had to hand it to her, though. The good press was working; already the Board (Lily had been, he grudgingly admitted, an unwavering asset) had arranged for him to sit in various interviews as part of the PR for Bass Industries. He said that he was all too happy to oblige, while mentally giving them the finger.

He was sure that Jack Bass was sleeping with one eye open.

When he finally arrived at Vanessa's boho coffee shop, she didn't even attempt to keep up the pretence that she needed any help from Chuck.

"Oh. Right. Yeah – I'm run off my feet," she said lamely, as he took in the empty tables.

"Yeah," Nate agreed too jovially. "You seem totally over-run."

Chuck stared at him.

"Ok – well I'll call you later, man."

Chuck stared at him.

Vanessa dumped a box of sugar packets in front of him. "Put those in the little containers on each table." Chuck stared at her. She leaned against the counter, exhaling through her teeth. "You know the most loveable thing about Nate? He is completely guileless. He just needed to run a few errands for…you know…his Mom."

Chuck rolled his eyes and sat at the counter, gesturing that she make him a coffee. Now used to Chuck's unrivalled sense of entitlement, Vanessa decided that as a birthday treat she wouldn't pore the scalding coffee over his head. He started fiddling with sugar packets.

"The errands wouldn't have anything to do with the surprise party that Nate is throwing for me at Victrola tonight, would it?"

Vanessa gaped at him. "How do you know about that?"

He smirked at her, adjusting his purple bowtie, which Nate hadn't even giving him enough time to tie properly before dragging him into a cab. "I had my P.I. follow Nate to see what he was up to."

It was probably a sign of the extent to which Vanessa's day-to-day experience of life had changed under the influence of Nate and Chuck that she didn't doubt for an instant that he was telling the truth.

"You don't do patience and trust very well, do you?"

"You can't ever know someone's darkest spaces, so how can you trust them?"

Vanessa conceded that he had a point. Sensing that Chuck had fallen into the quietly contemplative moods that he was prone to these days, she decided to change the subject. "Do you want your present now, or will you wait until tonight?"

If Dan had a fascination with the terrifying terrain of Chuck's inner world, Vanessa had an on-going preoccupation with the physical magnetism of Chuck's presence. There was no question that Nate was the more attractive of the pair, and just the sight of the boy who she still couldn't believe that she called her boyfriend was enough to make her knees weak. But if she looked at things objectively – through the eyes of a director, it was Chuck who would have fascinated her aesthetically. After hours of footage, after her own surreptitious examinations, Vanessa could almost put her finger on what it was that fascinated her about him.

It wasn't just his appearance of hedonism, his preoccupation with his clothes, the air of the aristocrat that surrounded him, but rather his face that made him the most fascinating subject of her documentary. In any scene, Chuck affected an air of superiority, of the bored offspring of an effete New York aristocracy. But there was a touch of tragedy about him; Vanessa had seen it from the beginning. It was his sense of perpetual motion, the way that he moved not because of his acute awareness of his own impulses, as he may have liked to think. Vanessa saw that he was helpless in some ways, that there was a sense of fatality about his movements. There was nothing ecstatic about his decadence. He performed his act with a sense of dread.

Except when he looked at Blair. In those moments, it was possible to see the orphan that he would one day be (the orphan that he always was, in a sense). A hunger that cannot be articulated, that defies definition, was in his eyes in those times. Vanessa supposed that he fed this appetite in all the ways he knew – trying to hide from the one unquenchable desire he had, but which he could not name. Of course, in reality, far from the world brought to life on screen, Chuck and Blair were long over, at least according to Nate, who seemed convinced that if the pair were to finally get together, they would destroy each other.

Presently, he looked at her with unabashed surprise. "You got me a present?" His voice was shy.

"It's a tradition we mortals have to mark the day of birth. You may be familiar with our ways," she drawled.

He bowed his head, smiling slightly. In the voice of a young child, he said, "I'll have it now, if that's okay. Thanks."

She handed over an old fob watch, which she had found at a flea market up the road from her apartment. She had threaded it through a card she had decorated with a silver man in a top hat. It had seemed so Chuck, this relic from a previous era. When she saw that it even had been engraved with "CC", she figured that this was close enough to "CB" to count as a sign. In this moment, however, she felt self-conscious. Drawn into her romantic notions of the neglected orphan, she had forgotten that in reality, Chuck Bass was a spoilt rich kid, who had probably never been given a gift that substantively equalled less than twenty dollars.

Last night, she had struggled for a long time with what to write on the card. Their friendship was new and tentative. In the end, she settled with "Happy Birthday, from Vanessa", but now in the light of day it seemed cold. She should have written his name on it. She should have wrapped it properly. She shouldn't have given it to him in the first place.

He had been staring at it for a long time. When Chuck looked up at her, he had an inscrutable expression on his face. "You got this for me," he said. It was a statement, rather than a question.

"Yeah," she said, self-consciously. "I know they aren't your initials, but I thought they were close enough to be appropriate. I mean, it's worth like nothing, but there was something about the fact it could have been thrown from a previous era that seemed…'

He looked at his lap. "Thank you."

She couldn't remember hearing those words quite so intensely before in her life. In a measured and casual voice, with a nod, she said it was no problem. She had almost forgotten that he was there when he started talking without warning.

"You think I'm not suited for this century?"

Vanessa offered him a crooked smile. "I'd go so far as to say for this planet, but yeah – there is a certain…old school quality."

He smiled, but his eyes were focussed on the distance. "Blair used to say that to me as well."

The B-word, at last. Vanessa had to admit, she was curious. She focussed on cleaning the espresso machine with a thin brush that Rufus had been so proud of for finding. It was more hindrance than help, but Vanessa found that it was a useful mechanism for conversations with Chuck Bass.

"So Nate told me that you and Blair…your…_thing_ is over?"

Chuck's face was unreadable. "What _thing_ is that?"

Vanessa focussed on that tiny brush with all her might. "You tell me."

Chuck shrugged and spread his hands before him. There was something aristocratic about Chuck's hands, she noticed. They could have conducted orchestras, painted masterpieces, or held fencing foils. So far as Vanessa could tell, however, all they seemed to do was grab women and hold drinks.

"There's nothing to tell. We had some fun, she wanted more than I could give her, and then my father died. The end. Cue musical number and validate your parking tickets."

This didn't quite accord with what Vanessa had seen and heard about the couple. But Chuck was difficult. But luckily, Vanessa had an incessant nosiness that wouldn't be silenced.

"What did she want from you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "She wanted the whole package – the dating, the movies, the home-made Valentine's Day cards, the tell-each-other-everything, only-you-can-save me, the…_love_ thing. You know."

He made it sound like a dirty word. And for an instant, quickly passing, Vanessa felt for this boy that she had always considered a delinquent and a whore.

"She wanted to be happy, you mean?"

"Yes," he said, quietly. "She wanted to be happy."

Sensing his darkening mood, the coffee brush lying forgotten on the counter, she smiled. "That doesn't sound like Blair."

But his mood would not lift. "She doesn't see it, you know."

"See what?"

He stood up, pulling out a silver case full of cigarettes and lifting one from the cohort. Seeing her scrunched nose and pointed look at the No Smoking sign, he shrugged and put it back in his pocket.

"See what?" She prompted.

His eyes had taken on that glazed look. "That some people have a greater capacity for tragedy than most. We're suited to it. We bend our will to it. It is our strength. And that's the thing about tragedy…"

She wondered whether he would ever finish the thought. She had returned to her scrubbing when he finally completed the thought.

"The things that you want the most, for the longest time – that _mean_ the most to you – are what bring you down in the end."

* * *

**Two Years Earlier**:

Blair had taken hours to narrow down her dress choice to merely two contenders. Despairing over her best friend's disappearance, and desiring a male opinion, Blair had been forced to make a phone call to the only person with the taste to select such an important outfit.

Anniversaries were not about surprises for Blair; she'd long since learnt that Nate Archibald had many admirable qualities, but creativity in romantic endeavours was not his forte. A flowers and jewellery man through and through, Nate knew how to make an elegant evening come together as if accompanied by the perfect swell of a film score. The routine of their anniversaries had been smoothed to clockwork; he would pick her up at seven for dinner reservations at a beautiful restaurant. They would have dinner, and he would, at some point (the only point which truly differed from year to year was whether he chose the entrée course or the desert course to present her with an immaculately, store-wrapped piece of jewellery), hand over a gift that she had herself selected the week before.

Eleanor had assured her that there was nothing wrong with choosing your own gift; men like Nate merely needed extra help. A dose of guidance and the slightest willingness to compromise surprise for dependability would go a long way towards a harmonious and mutually fruitful match.

"But Daddy loves to surprise you," Blair had objected, as her mother handed over several dresses for Blair to choose from.

Eleanor's face darkened slightly. There was something rather fixed about her mother's face; it rarely registered anything other than a wide-eyed, frozen look of disapproval. But, that afternoon, Blair had seen a movement around her mother's mouth that she was certain she had never seen before.

"Not all surprises are good, dear," her mother said simply, before offering a brief barb about Blair's bloating around the neck. Sometimes, her mother's constructive criticisms bordered on pathological.

She had agreed with her mother's advice, but she couldn't shake the sense that surely after all these years, Nate should be able to come up with a more creative idea than dinner and a piece of jewellery. No matter how much Eleanor assured her that all men were the same – would stick desperately to a gambit that worked, Blair couldn't silence the voice in her head that whispered insidious things about Nate.

_Not all men are the same_, the voice intimated.

That year, Kati had spent all Valentine's Day raving about her environmental scientist boyfriend, who, as far as Blair could tell, seemed to spend more time in exotic locations scuba diving than spending time with Kati. But when Blair head that he – Freddy, had been his name – that he had drilled holes into a piece of driftwood, so that it suspended ten test tubes of sand (one for each beach that he had visited and wished that she was with him), the roses that Nate had given her seemed too ostentatious, an unsubtle tribute.

"Gross," Blair had said with wrinkled nose, "why didn't he just give you a handful of dirt if he wanted to go the discount route?"

But inside, Blair had been envious.

She silenced the voice that kept telling her these things, reassuring herself that Nate loved her and enjoyed taking her to expensive meals. She had not eaten all day in preparation for the lavish dinner she knew would soon be thrust upon her. Now all that remained was a costume choice.

The dresses were some of Eleanor's finest work. But for the life of her she could not choose between them. Time was running out, and Chuck was taking his sweet time in arriving. She looked at the dresses again, hanging from the large screen that her father had brought her from his latest visit to Shanghai.

The first option was a satin dress of fuchsia and black, with a square neckline, a cinched black waist (with one of Eleanor's signature black bows). The skirt flared outwards, inches above Blair's knees, exposing a black satin under-layer. It was brighter than Blair would usually wear, and she stared critically at her exposed legs when she tried it on.

The second – the more "elegant" choice, she knew – was largely black, with short black sleeves, and which reached much lower down her leg. The skirt was tiered, with one layer (cut into gentle waves) in black, with the next in a deep tangerine colour. [1]

She was examining herself in the second dress when the door to her bedroom swung open without any warning. Instinctively, she pulled her robe over her chest, although as she was fully dressed, the action seemed silly – made her feel foolish. So, when she spoke to a bemused looking Chuck Bass, in black trousers and a light pink shirt with his signature bowtie, she didn't bother thanking him for rushing over.

"God – Chuck, would it kill you to knock?" Blair snarled.

"Stop being a drama queen," Chuck drawled, walking to her bed and making himself comfortable, not bothering to ask for permission. "You were decent…more's the pity. What seems to be the emergency?"

Blair exhaled through her teeth, frustrated. "Fashion disaster. I have no idea what to wear tonight, and Nate picks me up in less than two hours."

"The countdown is on," Chuck said sarcastically, holding up a bra she had left on the bed, only to have it snatched from his hand. "So to what do I owe the dubious pleasure of acting as your own personal fashion police?"

Blair looked at him reflected in the mirror. He seemed tired; he'd just returned from a trip to California with his father, and – as always, after spending extended periods of time with his father – Chuck seemed exhausted and demoralised. He was probably aching to loosen his tie (metaphorically and actually) and find some hot young thing to perform atrocious acts with. Blair felt a wave of sympathy for her friend's dysfunctional family situation, so when she spoke, her words were gentle.

"You're the only person I can trust not to send me out of the house looking like I just left a sale at Sears. Thank you for coming over so quickly. Even though you were twenty minutes late." Even when Blair did gentle, she didn't suffer tardiness well.

Chuck shrugged. "What does it matter what you wear. If you want to make an impact on Nathaniel, I'd advise that you focus on what you take off, rather than what you wear."

"What Nate and I do and do not wear in front of each other is none of your business."

Leaning back on her bed, feline-like in his movements, Chuck stretched his hands behind his head. "Why so shy? It's not as if you take your chastity belt off in front of him anyway. It's PG-13 all the way with you Waldorf."

Embarrassed, Blair turned to face him sniffily. "Not all of us enjoy being STD petri-dishes like you, Chuck. Now can you shut up and help me?" He shrugged his assent, bored and picking at her duvet cover. "What do you think of this dress?"

"It's great," Chuck said idly, "if you want to look like a character from _The Flintsones_."

She hated to admit it, but he was right. "Fine. You don't like it. This is a good start."

She disappeared behind the screen to put on the fuchsia option. Suddenly extremely aware of her shadow on the screen, and knowing that Chuck would not be abashed by a private shadow-puppet strip show involving his best friend's girlfriend, Blair reached for topics of conversation to distract him with.

"How was California?"

"Sunny, debaucherous, and utterly without culture," he said.

"In short, your kind of town," Blair said, pulling the dress over her head. She reappeared, feeling extremely under-dressed.

It wasn't a stunned look exactly. It was a one-second pause, followed by Chuck's signature up-and-down appraisal. There was nothing improper about how Chuck reacted to her emergence, but something in his expression made her all the more aware of herself: as if the temperature of each inch of her exposed skin had increased a degree or two.

"Zip me up?"

She turned to expose her back to him. He was yet to say anything, but when he put his hand on the small of her back she could feel, even through the fabric, that his hands were warm. He took great care not to touch any of her exposed skin, and the sound of his inhalation and exhalation seemed to fill the room.

She turned around to face him, holding her arms out to each side. "So, what do you think?"

He swallowed. "I think that the dress looks nice on you, Blair." [2]

It was a completely insufficient appraisal for a dress that she wanted to stop Nate in his tracks. But the tone of voice that it was uttered in made her stomach lift slightly, as if the floor had dropped several inches. He said it so wistfully, and the way he so rarely said her first name that it made her take pause. So even though the solemn truthfulness of his sentence had not been lost on her, she turned away from him to examine herself closely in the mirror.

"It looks nice? That's it? Maybe I should just ear that Versace one that my father got me – I haven't worn that yet either."

"No," he said, suddenly – slightly louder than he should have. "It's perfect."

As always with Chuck, it was easier to make eye contact through a mirror. The beat of silence was not uncomfortable exactly. Nonetheless, Blair didn't trust the silence, and she found herself once more searching for something to say. But this time it was Chuck who broke the eye contact and the pregnant moment.

"I have something for you…from California."

"You do?"

He offered her a crooked smile. "Think of it as an anniversary present."

She raised an eyebrow. "An anniversary present? From you?"

He shrugged. "Why not? I never get the chance to give anniversary presents - "

"No Chuck, because to have an anniversary with someone you have to see them more than once."

" – So I can live through you and Nate."

"Ok," Blair shrugged, "what is it?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out face-mask. Blair took it, uncertain. Inside, there was a guitar string. Chuck offered no explanation. Puzzled, Blair held it in her hands. The unexpected gift was one of Chuck's specialties.

"My gift is being given an implement I can strangle you with?"

"That's beautiful, Waldorf," Chuck said, and Blair felt a pang when he used her last name. "But no, it is not a tool for a felony."

"So what is it?"

"My father is friends with a director with Paramount, who loves collecting old Hollywood props. This guy was good friends with Blake Edwards, who - "

"Who directed _Breakfast at Tiffany's_," Blair interrupted, awed.

"Exactly. So he was showing me around his collection, which included a certain guitar from the movie. You know, where Audrey is on the fire escape singing 'Moon River'?"

Blair couldn't hide the half-smile that was forming on her face. "I've seen that movie a hundred times, I know the scene."

"Well, I tried to buy the guitar, but he said that he could never part with it. But he said I could have the string. I know it's stupid, I mean it's nothing special. He didn't even make me pay anything. But I mean, I guess he felt guilty about the lame substitute, because he gave me the face-mask she wears in the movie as well. Anyway, yeah. I thought you might like it."

It was a very un-Chuck speech, delivered in short, choppy sentences. He pushed his hands into his pockets. Blair stared at him intently. "Chuck. This is really nice of you."

"Try to keep the amazement out of your voice," Chuck muttered.

"Well, I can't help it. Thank you. I might still use the guitar string to strangle you…"

"Well, that's your prerogative. But really, Waldorf. It was nothing. I didn't even spend any money on them."

She remembered the scene in _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ when Audrey Hepburn's singing draws George Peppard to the fire escape. She had made Serena, Nate, and Chuck watch that film a hundred times. Nate usually dosed off during it, or excused himself for a joint. Chuck would make sarcastic comments, but she had the suspicion that he secretly enjoyed the films, born in the wrong era himself. Blair felt that they had that in common.

"It doesn't matter," Blair said, placing the string and the mask on her vanity. "This is better."

Chuck cocked his head to the side. "Better than what?"

"Just, better. So, the fuchsia?"

"The fuchsia. Definitely."

"Okay. Then go away."

Chuck was backing out of the room when he said, "of course, if you require any help in taking the dress off, my services are always available…"

"I'll be sure to pass that on to Nate," but she'd smiled in spite of herself.

Later that night, Blair had opened her most prized jewellery box, where her most precious pieces of jewellery were housed. But, she left Nate's earrings in their box and instead wound up the guitar string and placed it gently in the box. She was too tired to pay attention to the voice in her head that whispered things she didn't want to hear. And instead, she pulled on Audrey Hepburn's facemask and fell asleep.

The day of Chuck's eighteenth birthday, for the first time in three years, she pulled the guitar string out of the jewellery box and pondered what could have been, and may have been a long time coming.

* * *

Serena couldn't help herself; no matter what Blair said, she knew that not being included in tonight's party had hurt her deeply, and Serena was determined to confront Nate.

She found him standing in a dim room in the bowels of Chuck's club, Victrola. In the dim light, his face was more beautiful than ever. His cheekbones cast shadows over his jaw: his entire face cast in glass, sharp and arresting. Although Serena was happy with Dan – giddily happy, prone to bouts of bliss – she could easily remember what had attracted her to Nate. Their stolen time had been long passed, but to this day she could not look at Nate without feeling a certain pull.

True, she had been drunk that night, and without the liquid courage, Serena was certain that nothing would have happened with Nate. But, she also strongly believed that anyone who claims that they have no choice, or that the alcohol makes them do things that they never would in any other circumstance are lying to themselves. There was nothing that she did that night that hadn't occurred to her on some dark, hidden level of herself. The alcohol had just pushed her towards the direction she was already facing. It was not that she had forgotten about Blair, but rather that after a certain number of drinks, she quite simply hadn't cared.

But that was years ago now, and she and Nate had settled into a pleasant friendship. And Serena had settled into a pleasant phase with herself. Shaking herself out of her reverie, she took in the sight of Nathaniel Archibald without judgement, with only a hint of regret, and with more than a little affection.

Looking at him standing in a tangle of power cables, involved in a serious conversation with the transvestite audio-visual operator, Serena had to remind herself to be up-in-arms. She had entered the building with every intention of being huffy, but now she couldn't help but be moved by the fact that at least Nate and Chuck had worked things out – that half of their friendship group had realigned.

"Are you setting up a dance floor or powering a nuclear reactor?"

Nate grinned at her. "It's not looking good, is it?"

"You'll figure it out," she smiled, clutching her Balenciaga bag and eyeing the less savoury members of the lighting crew.

The cable that Nate had just dropped on the floor sparked slightly.

"Or, you know," Serena added dubiously. "You won't."

"Maybe it's time to leave it to the professionals."

When they were seated at one of the tables, Serena took a moment to look around the bar. Daylight really did not do it justice. It seemed that Nate had decided on a theme: the room was lined with statues of rabbits in various pop-art styles and there were oversized models of mushrooms sprouting from various points of the floor. There was something grotesque and disconcerting about the rabbit statues. They were huge and their faces were creased in humanoid expressions. One particular statue was wrought out of steel and bared down on her from the corner. She knew that the room would be the perfect culmination of Chuck's personality: the uncanny, the threatening, the playful and the hedonist.

"This looks great, Nate," Serena said, awed at the effort he had gone to. "Chuck is going to love it."

"Down the rabbit hole," Nate said simply. "Right up his alley."

"How is Chuck doing?"

"Really well, actually. Sometimes I want to burst into his room and ask him – 'who are you and what have you done with Chuck Bass?' I think that getting out of Blair's place was the best thing for both of them."

Serena cocked her head to the side. "That was actually what I wanted to ask you about. You didn't invite Blair to the party tonight, and I think it really upset her…"

Nate ran a hand through his hair. He'd been dreading this conversation. The truth was that part of him found it impossible to be around Blair. After the way she had collapsed at Lily's dinner, Nate had been terrified that Chuck would eventually destroy her. The fact that Chuck seemed to be blooming in light of the distance between them just added to his conviction that the combination of Blair and Chuck was noxious to everyone involved. They couldn't help themselves. Whenever they came into contact they were inexplicably drawn to each other. And so, Nate had done what he thought was best: helped them help themselves. Compounding this fear was a sense that if he, Nate, spent too much time with Blair, he may accidentally blurt out Chuck's secret.

But how to explain that to Serena?

"Look, Serena," he said after a moment of thought. "You know better than anyone what Chuck and Blair do to each other."

Serena had to concede that last time they were in close proximity, Chuck had abused a room full of her mother's friends and Blair had collapsed from the weight of his problems on her shoulders. As much as she had loved the concept of Blair and Chuck realizing their feelings for each other, even she was unconvinced that they would ever make it work.

"They can't help it," Nate continued. "It's in their natures. And now that both of them are finally doing alright, I don't want to ruin it. I don't want them to tear each other apart again. So tonight, let's just let Chuck celebrate his birthday and keep them away from each other."

There was nothing she could do, really. The party was Nate's baby. So, she left him to his preparations. As she thought of Blair and Chuck, she felt a wave of sadness; maybe some great loves are never meant to work in reality. They have to stay down the rabbit hole.

* * *

When Blair left her house that day, Aaron was waiting outside of it. But he was hidden from view, so that when she put on her sunglasses and sashayed down the street, she had no idea that she was being watched.

And in some ways, she wasn't being watched. Aaron noticed that her stockings were decorated with diamond patters and that her flat black shoes had small frills near the toe. He noticed that her hem flirted with the skin three inches above her knee, and that her waist was pinched by a large, black belt.

But she wasn't being watched. She was being memorised.

She looked so perfect that it made Aaron's throat tighten. It made him convinced that the most beautiful paintings in the world could never come close to the beauty that they tried to convey; it made him think that art could come to life. She looked so perfect to him.

But she did not look like she wasn't feeling well. She looked like she was walking to the Van Der Woodsen's house, carrying a large tome wrapped up in white and green. What she looked like was a liar.

Aaron hated liars.

* * *

When Chuck entered Victrola, his senses were overloaded by the huge crowds, the loud music, the flashing of lights and the grotesque shadows cast by the rabbits that could have been lifted out of his own mind. The room was full of friends and well-wishers, as well as more than a few people he was certain that he had never met in his life. Waitresses dressed in lingerie wore grotesque rabbit masks, and smells emanating from the bar and restaurant, were drowned out by the overwhelming sight of flames bursting upwards at random intervals.

He looked at Nate, who was grinning.

"What do you think man?" Nate slapped him on the back. "Down the rabbit hole, right?"

Chuck offered his friend a half-smile. "Where I've always belonged." With that, he reached for a drink.

Nate had done a spectacular job. The club was decorated to resemble a scene from an erotic nightmare. There were cages suspended in midair with bunny strippers holding onto the bars and gyrating in time to the music. As a nod to his recent foray into the Near East, the food embraced an Asian theme, which left Chuck feeling regretful that he couldn't remember much about his time in Bangkok. But, the alcohol did not discriminate between race and creed, which suited Chuck just fine. He couldn't stop shaking his head, repeating over and over, "I can't believe you did this, man." And he couldn't.

But he couldn't get excited about it either.

For the first twenty minutes, he was inundated with friends and well-wishers, everyone wanting a piece of him, but the bar staff kept him with drink in hand. Serena, Dan, Vanessa, Eric – what was her name? The younger Humphrey – and Nate stood back, allowing everyone else to dominate Chuck.

"You're a freaking legend, man. The whole school still talks about you," shouted one particular acquaintance, who Chuck strongly suspected had received a heavy strike to the head with a lacrosse stick. "Is it true that you once had a threesome with a milkmaid and then uploaded the video on Gossip Girl?"

"No single milkmaid is talented enough to constitute a threesome with me," Chuck murmured, deciding at that point to ignore the rest of the crowd who had gathered.

As he walked around the club, hoping to find his friends, he saw the last person he expected (and wanted) to see.

"Hello Chuck," Jack Bass said quietly, appearing like the Dark Prince from some dark corner of the room.

"Jack," he said tightly. "To what do I owe this displeasure?"

The smile was tight, Chuck noticed. _I'm finally getting to him_, Chuck thought, immediately deciding that every paint-speckled suit was worth it. And soon his trials and tribulations would pay off. Because he was officially an adult, and his father's Last Will and Testament must come into play soon enough, allowing him to petition the Board to appoint him as the CEO, taking his rightful place at the helm of his father's empire.

With that in mind, Chuck had been recently drawn to the literature of the Greeks and Romans, especially Gibbon's _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. Reading of the dominion of Rome followed by the fall of the Roman Empire, Chuck felt certain that the era was reaching out to him, calling to him from the past. He had tacitly decided to model himself on Gordian; he was said to have had twenty-two concubines and a library of sixty-two thousand books. Not bad for a day in the Roman Empire.

But while looking at his father – no, Chuck could not think of him as that – _Jack_, another line from Gibbon sprang to mind, when he spoke of the arts of Severus: "he promised only to betray; he flattered only to ruin; and however he might occasionally bind himself by oaths and treaties, his conscience, obsequious to his interest, always released him from the inconvenient obligation". And so, even when Jack stood before him as a friend, there was nothing but distrust between them, and a gulf of topics that neither one of them would dare to broach.

"It's your birthday," Jack said quietly. "You think I could forget your birthday?"

"Thinking, hoping, wishing…dreaming. I'm writing a folk song about it. Call me an optimist."

"I brought you a gift," Jack said, quietly.

"Papers reappointing me as the head of the company? Why you shouldn't have. It's mine anyway, now that I'm eighteen."

There was something about the plane of Jack's face that caused shifts in light to transform it totally. With the right allocation of light and shadow, his visage could be changed from angel to demon, from friend to betrayer.

"Actually," Jack said, with the merest glint of victory in his eyes. "I think that you'll find that the Board agrees with my assessment: that you are not yet ready to take over Bass Industries. And as your guardian, that job still falls to me."

"Then you have nothing that I want," Chuck said flatly.

"I disagree," Jack said, handing over a folder.

Chuck didn't bother to open it before he walked away without once looking back. Sidling up to Vanessa at the bar, Chuck spat at the bartender, "Vodka with ice."

"That bad?" Vanessa asked wryly. She looked over to the dance floor, where Serena and Dan rotated in the most intimate of embraces regardless of the musical style or movements of those around them. In the middle of the large floor, Nate and several other members of his soccer team danced around without shirts on. "Do those guys ever keep their shirts on?"

Chuck shot the crowd an amused look. "Not when there is the chance of a man-grope." There was a beat. "So, have you seen Blair around?"

Vanessa attempted to hide her look of triumph. Chuck was still staring at the crowd, but his eyes flickered back to Vanessa, showing that he was on tenterhooks as to her answer.

"I haven't seen her."

Something in the boy deflated. It started in his shoulders, although his face remained impassive. From the neck down, Chuck could not hide his disappointment. But when he spoke, his voice remained steady.

"I think Serena has something for you from her," Vanessa offered.

She had barely finished her sentence when Chuck strode over to his former step-sister, pulled her from Dan's embrace, and dragged her to where Serena had left her coat and bag. Vanessa shook her head.

"Sure you're over her, Bass," Vanessa muttered, only to find two girls staring at her for talking to herself in public.

"I'm from Brooklyn," she explained.

The girls nodded and scampered off, as if scared of catching something. Still rolling her eyes, Vanessa decided to make use of Nate's bare chest and join him on the dance floor.

* * *

There was no way, Blair thought as she lay – no _luxuriated_ – on the couch in the living room, that she would think about Chuck's party.

Soon enough she would be at Yale, and the parties of High School would barely even register in her memory. She would smile when they asked her about the nightlife in New York at some glamorous Eli event. Then she would demurely concede that even though she had been invited to all the most glamorous parties, it was merely something that she did as a child. Not as a glamorous, _collegiate_ woman.

She wouldn't think about it.

But she had given Dorota the night off. And she had constructed a playlist on iTunes dedicated only to her "Agonisingly Depressing Mix". And she had put _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ on the television. And she had actually ordered pizza. Basically, she had completely adopted the pose of a pathetic woman pining over her man.

Blair decided that one night of moping would be forgivable for a future Eli.

In the spirit of wrist-slashing depression, Blair had been going over the last year with a critical eye, hoping to pinpoint a precise moment when her life had spiralled out of her grasp. This had turned into a borderline musical montage of moments stolen and spent with Chuck.

The day after her seventeenth birthday, when the sun had risen on her illicit tryst on Chuck, and the memory of Nate's own midnight adventures, Blair found herself awaking to a sick-feeling. The light was aggravating her headache, and the day had only served to convince her that the nights of the last few weeks had been nothing but dreams. With heavy eyelids, she looked around the room for a reason to get out of bed.

And he had walked into her bedroom. "I'm taking you to breakfast," he'd said simply.

"I'm not going out in public with you," Blair spat, wishing for some reason that she had been forewarned about his coming over, so she could have dressed up for him, put on some make-up (or at least brushed her hair).

"So I assumed," he smirked. "Get dressed, we're going to my suite."

She'd crossed her arms. "Yeah Chuck, because where I want to be right now is in close proximity to your bed."

It was one of those moments with Chuck, when she would say something that he would leave hanging in the air, giving her a moment to regret her tone, to question her own intentions, to hope that he could convince her to change her mind. He would look serious, take the measure of her, with his head cocked to the side. And then he would smile or laugh, and say something disarmingly sweet.

"Well," he's said softly. "Where I want to be right now is in close proximity to you. So get dressed."

She'd gotten dressed, with a sense of occasion.

And those weeks had been an unwilling revelation. When she left his side (and that had not been a regular occurrence), she had been filled with doubt – with revulsion and shame. She imagined how her friends, her family would react if they learnt that she and Chuck Bass were embroiled in some strange, uncategorised, casual affair. And yet, when she entered his suite – their unofficial play-den – or he took her, under the cover of darkness, to a restaurant, booked out entirely so that they could be completely alone, or when he gave her a little gift "just because", she would find that she was, in the deepest parts of her, completely unashamed. And so, in the wild embraces that they experienced, when he would be drunk on the feeling of possessing something he had desired for so long and she would be drunk on the feeling of being completely uninhibited before someone with no inhibitions himself, she would forget herself.

And soon enough, she would find that the thought of him made her smile, and the memory of their time together would make her laugh or bite her lip. So when they passed each other in the outside world, she would feel a spark that she attributed entirely to the thrill of the secret life, but which in reality was more than that. She loved being able to smile when her mother criticised her, with the secret that Eleanor would so deeply disapprove of lurking just behind her eyes. She had known it was starting to show. And she didn't care in the least.

Of course, that was before she had found herself suddenly with Nate for a date to the cotillion ball and Chuck upstairs in her bedroom. The mood of that particular afternoon had been spoilt with the overhead conversation, with Chuck moodily skulking back to the Palace.

"Maybe you should ask Nate to finish up here," he'd drawled, when she'd tried to pick up where they had left off.

"Oh please," she rolled her eyes. "We're going as friends, nothing more."

And even though he had stormed out, and even though she had turned up to his suite and they had wordlessly ripped off each other's clothes, and he hadn't mentioned anything about it, and she'd fallen asleep in a daze, with him kissing her shoulder – even though he didn't say a word, she knew that he was not convinced.

And it was then that the cracks started to show, and she longed to go back to a time when she had been restrained, proper, and incapable of these passionate outbursts that Chuck inspired in her. To go back to being asleep inside, and perfect on the outside.

And so now she sat here, full of regret.

When the buzzer finally went off, Blair didn't think much of it, assuming that her pizza had arrived. So when the elevator doors opened she was not expecting to see Aaron.

"Can I come in?"

He didn't wait for a response before he stepped into her apartment, digital camera around his neck (_as if he can't just be an artist; he has to announce it to every man, woman and child he comes across_).

"Didn't you get my message? Saying that I was sick – didn't you get it?"

While she had once found his probing looks intriguing, the one he affixed on her at the sound of her question left her feeling chilled and uncomfortable. Something was wrong; she could tell from his erratic movement, the way he stumbled and kicked the table in the hallway.

"You're drunk," she said simply.

He pulled at his cropped leather jacket and adjusted his glasses. "I'm old enough," he shrugged.

"I thought you weren't drinking anymore. I mean Serena said…"

"That really doesn't seem to be any of your business."

She was taken aback by his harsh tone. "I guess not."

When he righted himself, she could see his face soften, but his eyes darted around the room. He was nervous. When he didn't say anything, she felt a wave of…something come over her. She'd read once that in situations of danger, the human (and animal) will be flooded with adrenaline: the body's attempt to prepare for either flight (running from the perceived danger) or fight (to take the danger on headfirst). It was difficult to say whether this feeling was adrenaline, but Blair found herself suddenly very aware of the room. It seemed to her that every element of the room was screaming at her: Get. Him. Out. Of. Here.

"It's late Aaron, and I really am feeling unwell. Why don't you just tell me why you came here?"

He took a step towards her, and in spite of herself, she took a step back. He grabbed her wrist, just a fraction too hard. He pulled at the camera around his neck. "I want to show you some pictures I've taken. Please – it's important to me."

Ignoring her feelings of disquiet, influenced by years of breeding and training in hostess-ing, she led him into the kitchen. "Why don't I boil some tea, and you show me these photos of yours?"

* * *

Serena had always found Chuck difficult to read, but the look on his face when he unwrapped the gift from Blair was even more inscrutable than usual.

"What is it?"

Chuck seemed to have lost the power of speech.

"Chuck – what did Blair give you?"

He had finally located his tongue. "It's a book. It's _Alice in Wonderland_."

"A book?" Serena asked, an eyebrow raised. "A _children's_ book? Maybe she's worried about the school you're missing. Could do you good to read some new material outside of _Playboy_."

"I've already read it. I mean, someone read it to me. My nanny. When I was young."

Serena found it hard to imagine Chuck as a child, reading about a talking rabbit. Even though she had known him for many years, it had always seemed like he was slightly more debonair than the rest of them – as if he had always been more precocious. It was difficult to remember that he was the same age as she was.

"And Blair knew that?"

He was lost in thought, staring out at the city (he had, in true Chuck form, insisted that they go to the roof).

"Blair knew that?" Serena pressed him.

"No. I never told her. But she had a copy of this in her bedroom. I saw it once. She probably noticed."

"That does sound like Blair."

He looked at the exquisite old book, illustrated with whimsical pictures of flamingos and human-sized playing cards. That had always appealed to Chuck: the sense of the non-sense in the story. The way that Alice had been confronted with a figment of utter make-believe, and had followed it all the way down a rabbit hole. A leap of faith, perhaps. Or a moment of insanity. It suddenly seemed to Chuck, staring at the New York City skyline that all the greatest things were either leaps of faith or moments of insanity.

"She's not here tonight," he commented.

Serena studied her former step-brother's profile, finding him changed. His hair was longer; it swept his collar and curled slightly. She hated to admit it, but the bruised look of abandonment on his face really suited him. He looked wiser somehow, serious. It was as if he had come to the end of a terrible journey across a harsh landscape and had found that in order to go on, he had to shut down entirely. He had no more capacity to engage with the world around him. But Serena noticed the way his hand traced the gilt words on the cover of Blair's book. Faced with the decision that Nate had presented her with: whether she would join him on his quest to save Blair and Chuck from themselves, or whether she would push them once more to each other.

A gust of wind passed over the rooftop. Serena felt a tingle on her scalp and shoulders as it passed through her long hair. Nate was right. They had torn each other apart. But Serena felt suddenly small on that rooftop, pressed by the breeze, lit by the moon, looking out at one of the greatest cities in the world. Dwarfed, it occurred to her that she could no more stand in front of fate as a pebble could stop a tide. So, she stepped aside.

"She wasn't invited," Serena said. "She was pretty upset about it."

Chuck was genuinely surprised, turning to look at Serena's face. "Why wasn't she invited?"

"Nate thought it was the right thing to do."

"Of course he did," Chuck murmured bitterly, looking back out at the city.

Serena reached out to touch his face, to move his gaze once more to her face. Shocked at the contact, Chuck didn't have time to prepare – to cover his barely masked agony. She was moved by the conflicting emotions behind his eyes.

"Why, Chuck? Why do you stand in your own way?"

Chuck averted his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do," she insisted intensely. "Why do you insist on standing on the sidelines? On watching all of your friends have _lives_ while you hide in your little rabbit hole. You stand on the side of life – you do, no matter how hard you party, how much you're the centre of the room – you're terrified of jumping in. Why are you so scared of living?"

"I've found that living is usually more disappointing in practice than it is in the imagining."

"What are you waiting for Chuck? You're eighteen years old. It's time to stop dreaming about one day, and start making sense of what you actually have. And what you actually want."

"How am I supposed to know what I want?"

It was a rare occurrence to see Chuck so serious, and Serena didn't want to give him a flippant answer. "I guess you never really do. You just have to listen to yourself and figure out what feels right, what you think will make you like your own reflection."

"Is that what you did?"

"I ran away," Serena said in a hushed tone. "Because it seemed to me that there was no way to fix the mess I'd made. But when I heard about Eric – I was so scared to come back, and I knew it would be so easy to just stay where I was, to be a bad sister, I guess. Because I knew that being here would test the changes I'd tried to make to myself. And I thought people would never see them, would just see me as I was. But, I knew that if I didn't come back, I'd hate myself."

"So you came back."

"Yeah. And the whole mess I'd left was still sitting here. So I had to fix them one by one." She sipped her champagne, contemplating her own journey over the last few years.

"How did that work out for you?"

She knew he was being flippant, but underlying his question was a tone of sincere seriousness. Not knowing how else to answer him, she summoned all of the joys that had come to her – the joy of having a relationship with her mother, her brother, Blair, and even more, Dan, and feeling like she was making something of herself, investing in her future. So, she looked at Chuck with her warm successes in her face and smiled.

He nodded at the silent answer. They stood there for a while, and Serena was about to return to the party when Chuck broke the silence.

"So you think I should go and see Blair?"

"No," Serena said simply. "I think that you can always make a choice. And I think that it's your eighteenth birthday, and if there's somewhere else you'd rather be, then you should go there. Things don't always work out between people and some situations are too much for one person to fix. But, you can try." She touched his arm lightly, smiling gently. "Don't you think that maybe it's time to stop standing on the sidelines?"

"You know, sis," he drawled. "You really should get a guest spot on Dr. Phil."

She laughed, more because he'd called her 'sis' than because she thought what he'd said was funny. "So, what are you going to do?"

Chuck thought for a long moment. Then, with purpose in his stride and the book under his arm, he walked to the door leading back down to Victrola. He opened it for Serena, who didn't think that he'd ever get around to answering her question. But, as she passed through into the stairwell, he tapped her arm.

"Can you cover for me with Nate? There's some place I have to be."

"You got it," Serena grinned.

* * *

Aaron watched Blair sit at her kitchen table, looking at the photos on his digital camera with a peculiarly fixed expression on her face. Agitated, he wandered around the room, motion without direction, in contrast to Blair's stony stillness. When she was finished with the pictures, she put the camera down on the table between them.

"They're all of me."

"Yes," he said hoarsely.

"That one from Macy's – that was just a few days ago."

"Yes."

"You've been following me," she said flatly.

"_Yes._"

It was the final "_Yes_" that stood out to her. He had drawn out the "s" in a snake-like way, making her mind flash to the analogy that had occurred to her earlier: the predator and the victim. She felt her heart beating hard in her chest, and worried that he could hear it. Uncertain of what she should say, she stared at the cell phone she had carelessly thrown on the kitchen bench, itching suddenly to call someone – to get him out her house.

"What do you think?" His voice was tight, nervous, and even with the tea she had made him, he was clearly still drunk.

Blair had never been particularly diplomatic. But, she knew that provoking him would be a bad idea. She stood up, tightened her robe, and pushed the camera across the table towards him.

"I think that you should leave."

A beat of silence. Staring at each other.

Blair could not shake the feeling of violation that had washed over her at the sight of herself stalked like prey by the hungry eye of his camera. She hadn't realized that he was watching her. She hadn't realized that under the veneer of friendship, he had been chronicling her every move, invading her privacy.

For his part, Aaron stared transfixed at the camera she had pushed back at him, casting off his affections as if they were an annoyance, when he had so carefully and intimately fashioned her into an artwork. She didn't understand – she simply didn't understand how it was.

"I think you should leave, right now," Blair finally said.

Aaron stepped towards her. "You don't like them," he said darkly.

"No, Aaron," Blair said, fighting to control her voice and her desire to run out of the room and into the elevator. "I don't like them. And I don't like the fact that you've been _stalking _me. And I don't like the fact that you're now in my house – _uninvited_ – to show me your freaky pictures. So, why don't you leave?"

The words buzzed around in Aaron's head, difficult to hear against the cacophony of his pulse beating in his head, his drunkenness, and his growing fury. He had to make her understand how he felt. He _had _to. He took another step towards her.

"Don't you get it Blair? I made you into an _artwork_ – I wanted everyone to see how beautiful you are. And now you're kicking me out of your house?"

Blair stood her ground. "Yes. So why don't you leave?"

"So you don't care?" His voice had taken on a dangerous edge. "You don't care how I feel?"

Blair didn't know much about negotiations with a crazy person, but she sensed that she should try to calm him down. "Of course I care," she lied. "I just think that you're confused about how you're feeling. Maybe you should go and we can talk about it tomorrow. In public."

"You're trying to get rid of me," he spat accusingly, standing too close to her. "You still don't get it." No more than a foot from her, he looked her up and down appraisingly. "I'll make you understand."

"Just go," Blair whispered.

For a moment, it seemed as if he was going to do just that. In an alternate reality, perhaps he would have apologised, left the room, left the apartment, gone back to his studio, and left her in peace. Perhaps if she had been gentler, perhaps if he'd been sober. Perhaps if there hadn't been photographs, perhaps if she'd gone to Chuck's party. Perhaps so many things.

But he stayed.

"Please go," Blair said, hating the waver in her voice.

"I'm sorry Blair," he said.

Another beat. And then Blair did what any sensible adult would have done in her position.

She ran.

If she could just make it the forty yards to the elevator, things would be okay, she thought. She could get onto the street, or knock on a door, or run into a restaurant, and get away from this awful scene that had gotten so awfully out of hand.

She was still thinking these things when she felt someone slam her to the ground. Her cheek impacted the ground painfully. His rough hands pushed her onto her back as she thrashed and scratched at him.

"Hold – _still_," he said through gritted teeth, as he tried to kiss her lips.

"Get _off _me," she spat, scratching at his exposed flesh, kicking her legs, forcing herself up, until his hand pushed straight down on her collarbone, winding her, forcing her to the ground, and sending another blinding impact to the back of her head.

He finally managed to pin her arms over her head, his grip was painful; she knew she would bruise. Tears filled her eyes. She felt him push up her nightdress, his alien hands pulling at her underpants, the force of his erection through his jeans. She hated that he kept trying to kiss her – when he finally made contact with her lips, she bit down hard.

"Bitch," he spat.

Surely, she thought desperately, as he started to unzip his jeans, surely someone would come to her aid. But everyone she knew was far away – at Chuck's party. There was no one to save her. No one would come to her aid. She was entirely alone.

The thought should have caused her to despair, but she found it strangely galvanising. She was not the weak girl that she had once been – physically and mentally. She was Blair Waldorf. And this posing, drunken, try-hard artist was going to pay, one way or another. Sure, he might be bigger than her, but he was a skinny-jeans wearing coward, and she was not going down with out a fight.

With a burst of strength, she clawed at the exposed flesh on his cheeks as he fumbled with his jeans. He instinctively fended her off with his hands, and in the confusion, she managed to muster all the strength she could to kick him right in the groin with all her might. As he swore, and rolled off her, she seized the advantage 3and squirmed out of his grasp. Without knowing quite what she was doing, she ran to the living room, grabbed the wrought iron poker that lay next to the decorative fireplace, and turned around to face him.

He was scowling, halfway to his knees.

"If you don't get the hell out of my house, I will hit you in the same place, but with this goddamn poker, next time." He looked suitably fearful. "Now get out."

Looking at her serious face, he took a step towards her. "Blair," he spoke smoothly. "Obviously you misunderstood what just happened."

"Oh, I understood, thanks. And if you ever talk to me again, I will make you sorry that I didn't beat you to death with this thing."

Nervousness, fearfulness, and disappointment chased each other across his face. He felt the numbing effect of the wine wearing off, and the very real repercussions of what he had just attempted were flooding him. For her part, Blair just stood there stonily, poker at the ready. Scowling at her, he turned towards the elevator.

"I wasn't going to – don't flatter yourself by thinking – I mean, it wasn't."

Blair said nothing, even when the elevator opened and he left her house. But when the doors closed and she found herself alone, she let the poker clatter to the floor, and shakily made her way back to the kitchen. At the sight of his camera still sitting there, Blair sat down at the table and cradled her head in her hands. As the impact of the narrowly averted catastrophe sunk in, Blair found to her surprise that she was sobbing.

She sobbed over the feeling of betrayal, she sobbed because there was no one around to save her.

But even through her horror at what had nearly happened, Blair felt the tiniest gleam of pride.

* * *

When Chuck arrived at Blair's building, he was knocked aside by an angry, dark-haired apparition, aggressively making his way down the street.

Caught by surprise, it took Chuck a moment to recognise Aaron Rose. Aaron and Blair – now that was an unlikely couple. Faced by the prospect of finding Blair with a post-coital glow caused by a man other than him, and suddenly uncertain as to why he'd come, Chuck stood for a while, scuffing his expensive shoes on the sidewalk.

It was Serena's fault, really. She had given him a _Braveheart_-style pep talk, forcing him to heroically march to Park Avenue, but she hadn't given him anything further to work with. He wasn't even sure why he'd come here; it had just seemed like the right place to be. But what was he even going to say when he went up there?

As if his body was responding to the thought – trying to supply him with a good enough reason to enter Blair's apartment – Chuck felt himself suddenly filled with righteous anger. The pieces fell together easily enough when he willed them into place: Aaron was Serena's ex. And what was she doing sneaking around with him? What was she doing getting involved with her _stepbrother_? And she'd never let him touch her, right? And would she object hugely if he, Chuck, had Aaron arrested?

"It's Chuck. Let me in."

Overwhelmed by an irrational but genuine anger at the concept of Blair and Aaron, Chuck stormed into Blair's Park Avenue penthouse with as much fury as he could muster. He felt a great satisfaction at the sound of his feet beating against the marble floor, as if providing the beat for a large army. It took him a while, but he finally found Blair, sitting in the kitchen, wearing a dressing gown, with her hair over her face. Even through his anger, Chuck was struck by her slumped posture, and the way her hands circled the mug of tea in her hands.

"Hello Chuck," she said quietly.

"Blair," he replied tightly, slamming the beautiful edition of _Alice In Wonderland_ on her kitchen table.

Chuck was already sensing that the conversation wouldn't be playing out according to plan. There was no sense of fight in Blair's bearing. Her voice was quiet, and in the face of such a sense of calm, Chuck felt his own anger beat its fists weakly against his chest, frustrated at a lack of confrontation.

"Why are you here, Chuck? Shouldn't you be at your party?"

"Well," Chuck said, still staring at the side of her head. "I was coming to thank you for the gift, and ask you to come to the party, but I can see that you were having your very own_ private _party. It's not that I don't applaud the flouting of social convention, but you're step-brother? That's a bit Mississippi for my tastes, especially this far above the Mason-Dixon line."

Blair's hand rubbed her forehead. "What do you care? You've made your feelings amply clear. We're nothing to each other now, Chuck. So what business is it of yours who I enjoy _private_ parties with?"

Without a hint of anger, she stood up and turned around, showing him her back. She was pouring herself a glass of milk, and the purity of the image contrasted so acutely with the images that had seethed in his mind – of her and Aaron in the throes of passion – that Chuck found himself once more thrown.

She seemed exhausted, resigned. Now that he was faced with her quiet stillness, he could not quite remember what had made him come here in the first place. As usual, he had acted and only considered his motivation after the fact. All he had known was that he wanted to see her. But she was right, really – he had no business marching in here furiously, as if a jealous boyfriend. He'd just been thrown by the sight of Aaron, so dishevelled downstairs. It occurred to him that since he had left her house, he had ostensibly erased himself from her life. It terrified him, how easy it was to simply exit from a life.

"You're right," he said to the side of her head; she refused to face him. "I won't bother you anymore."

He reached for the book he had put on the bench, but in a moment of uncharacteristic carelessness, he knocked the book to the floor. The sudden ricochet of the book against the hard ground made Blair whip around, her hair flying away from her face.

It was then he saw the large welt on her cheek. In the suspended moment that followed, Chuck stared at the bruise that coloured her pale face and followed the line of bruising to her chest, where a hand-mark marred the flesh that had been exposed by her sudden movement.

_It's like an artist has painted on her_, he thought idly, frozen with shock. A minute passed (in which Blair covered her cheek with hair and adjusted her robe) before the significance of that analogy sank in.

With five purposeful, furious strides, Chuck had crossed the room, and grabbed her arm, trying to turn her bruised face back towards him.

"_What. Did. He. Do?_" he hissed.

Blair refused to meet his eyes. "Nothing, really."

At that moment, Chuck could have killed Aaron. He was terrified by the intensity of his anger, the intensity of his fury that someone had laid a hand on Blair. His mind raced with the horrible scenarios that could have unfolded in this very room. Agitated, he turned around, tapping the bench-top, the walls.

"What happened, Blair. _Tell me_." Chuck affixed his anguished eyes to her face. "Did he…hurt…you?"

The euphemism jarred him. But for the life of him, he couldn't stand to actually articulate what he was afraid of. Blair finally looked at him, taking in the agitation in his stance, the creases in his face, and the terror in his eyes. It was as if Chuck had pulled off a mask. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as his fist clenched and unclenched.

"He tried," Blair said softly, "but I fought him off."

_He had no right_. That was Chuck's first thought. Aaron had no right to touch her. Shaking his head, mouthing words rather than saying them, Chuck focussed his eyes onto the ground. Blair stepped towards him, thinking that perhaps if she touched him, he would see that she was not going to shatter, that she had not disappeared. But before she could lay a hand on him, Chuck's head whipped up, his face twisted and terrifying.

"I'm going to – fucking – kill him."

With that, Chuck whirled around and strode towards the entrance hall.

"Wait – no, Chuck," Blair hurried after him. "Stop. It's fine. I dealt with it."

"And now I'm going to deal with it," he muttered darkly. His trench-coat billowed behind him, the collar turned up and brushing the curls at the nape of his neck. She was terrified; in this state, he would be capable of anything. She needed to stop him before he did something completely, irrevocably stupid.

A small, ungenerous side of her resented his efforts. It was as if he were trying to establish his role as her protector, when really, the credit for fending Aaron off lay with her. He was doing what he always did: running away was second nature to him. Why couldn't he ask her – make sure that she was alright, make sure that her hands had finally stopped shaking. An even less generous side of her, one she was ashamed to acknowledge, wished that he had been the one to stop Aaron's advances, wished that Chuck had pulled him off her, punched him once in the face, scooped her up into his arms. Instead, she was scampering after him wearing only a slip and dressing gown, with bruises that foundation would never succeed in masking.

She had finally drawn level to him. "Will you just stop it? I don't need you to protect me. I dealt with it."

Chuck refused to answer, hands in his pockets, within metres of the elevator – and therefore out of her reach. Seeing no other option (and feeling more than a little frustrated by his melodramatic antics), Blair impulsively pushed her foot out, as she had done to Roman at the ice rink last year.

The next thing she knew, Chuck Bass was sprawled on the floor, gaping up at her. "What the hell did you do that for?"

She shrugged. "Well I had to stop you from doing something stupid – and completely redundant. I'm fine – I can look after myself."

Chuck scowled at her, pulling himself to his feet. "How can you say you're fine? Look at you – look what he did!"

"They're just bruises," Blair said stubbornly, arms crossed. "They hurt a hell of a lot less than what's happened these last few months."

Eyes widened in shock, Chuck mirrored her cross-armed stance. "Oh so now you're comparing me to him?"

"No, of course not," Blair snapped. "But seriously, Chuck? After weeks of _nothing_, you come bounding in here and expect that you can fix everything by beating Aaron into a bloody pulp."

"Well what the hell was I supposed to do? You kicked _me_ out, Blair. Remember?"

"It seems to be working pretty well for you," Blair spat. "With your new BFF Vanessa and your precious party."

"The party wasn't my idea," Chuck protested. "And don't blame me for your decisions; you're the one who decided to go gallivanting around with Serena's cast-offs."

"Oh so now it's _my _fault?"

Blair's face was twisted with anger, the fury emphasised by the bruise that was forming a knot on her face. He felt the anger melt away from him. "You don't get it," he said sadly. "You don't get how it feels to see…well…to see you…hurting. I just – I want to…fix it."

Blair remembered how it had felt to see Chuck falling apart at the seams after his father's death. That bruise had been hidden, but she had ached for him. Her anger evaporated. "I can look after myself," she said softly. "You don't have to protect me."

"You still don't get it," Chuck said heavily. "I need to protect you. You're…you're just too precious…to me."

Warring with herself, she took the slightest step towards him. And he responded by taking a symmetrical step towards her. For possibly the first time in the history of Chuck and Blair, they met in the middle. Finding themselves in this unusual situation, neither of them could keep track of who exactly reached out for the other; all that mattered was that the very next minute, they were in each other's arms. There they stood, Chuck burying his face in her hair, resting on her shoulder, feeling the weight of her head on his chest, exactly on his heart. She must have been listening to his heart-beat.

Chuck had never been a hugger. The few hugs that he could remember had involved the girl he now held against his chest. With his free hand, he stroked her back.

"You know. I really loved the book."

"I'm glad," she murmured, still clutching him.

When they pulled away from each other, bashfully, Chuck sighed heavily. "I'll leave you, then."

Blair felt a pang. As much as she tried to hide it, the attack had shaken her. And she didn't much like the thought of being alone. Averting her eyes, Blair fixed her eyes onto the banister. "Would you mind…I mean could you…stay with me?"

He didn't answer, but rather just took off his jacket and tie. Uncertain, he grabbed the book from the kitchen and settled down on the sofa in the living room. Patting the space next to him, he opened it to the first chapter.

Also uncertain and more than a little bit shy, Blair sat next to him. Clearing his throat, he read: "Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, 'and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice 'without pictures or conversation?'"

Somewhere along the way, as he read aloud, Blair settled her head on his shoulder, and felt his free arm snake around her waist. It was a stolen moment, a surprising gift amidst a draining week. But sitting on the couch, surrounded by Chuck's smell and feeling his real, physical presence for the first time in weeks, Blair felt the suddenly calm. Long before he had finished reading, she had fallen into a restful slumber. Closing the book quietly, Chuck gently lifted her from the couch to carry her to her bed. The sight of the bruise on her cheek still wounded him, and he secretly vowed to make Aaron pay.

"Good night Blair," he whispered when he placed her on the bed, hesitantly curling up next to her, tentatively cradling her in his arms.

"Good night Bass," Blair said in a groggy voice. "Oh - and Happy Birthday."

Chuck never did return to his party; for once, reality had more appeal than a dream world down the rabbit hole.

* * *

[1] The dresses described in this chapter are straight from the Laden Showroom. If you like the sounds of them you can probably order them from the website.

[2] Chuck's comment in the flashback, about how the dress looks nice on Blair is a quote from the Sufjan Stevens song, "The Dress Looks Nice On You", which is currently on loop on my ipod.


	7. Chapter 7: Polarities

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review the re-uploaded chapters! It makes my day to see.

**Chapter Seven****: Polarities**

_Sometimes she is like sherry, like the sun through a vessel of glass,_

_Like light through an oriel window in a room of yellow wood;_

_Sometimes she is the colour of lions, of sand in the fire of noon,_

_Sometimes as bruised with shadows as the afternoon._

_Sometimes she moves like rivers, sometimes like trees;_

_Or tranced and fixed like South Pole silences;_

_Sometimes she is beauty, sometimes fury, sometimes neither,_

_Sometimes nothing, drained of meaning, null as water._

_Sometimes, when she makes pea-soup or plays me Schumann,_

_I love her one way; sometimes I love her another_

_More disturbing way when she opens her mouth in the dark;_

_Sometimes I like her with camellias, sometimes with a parsley-stalk,_

_Sometimes I like her swimming in a mirror on the wall;_

_Sometimes I don't like her at all._

Kenneth Slessor, "Polarities"

* * *

"I hate that everyone's looking at me," Blair said through gritted teeth.

"Looking at _you_?" Chuck asked incredulously. "They're all looking at me as if I'm a character in Law and Order. You know what they do to wife-beaters in prison?"

Blair rolled her eyes. "What – you think that they're assuming you were the one who gave me the black eye? Is that why you're dressed up in detective gear?"

Chuck pulled his trench-coat closer around his body. "You can't be too careful."

"I think that you can be," Blair muttered. "But who am I to question Chuck Bass, P.I."

"That's the spirit," Chuck smirked.

There was something delightfully natural about the return of their banter, and a small, guilty part of Blair was pleased that last night had brought him to her. It was appealing – a type of exhilaration – to have some kind of disaster crash into your life. When catastrophe strikes, every movement has more meaning; the cogs of your normal life cease turning, and you a sent into a world of significance. The cool air is put there as a sign to you. The person walking beside you is a symbol of something greater. And you are changed by that freedom. When catastrophe strikes, you are daring.

Of course, despite the exhilaration that came with Blair's acute awareness of the world around her, horrific the images flickered behind her eyes – as the thought of what could have happened chilled her to the bone – and her thoughts came with a shiver. Chuck was standing close enough to feel it; he turned his dark eyes to hers.

You'd have to know Chuck, Blair mused, to see that he was concerned about her. Chuck never allowed his emotions to freely flicker across his face, and to even catch a glimpse of them was an indication of a deep intimacy. Although that wasn't quite true, now Blair thought of it. He would show anger. He would show the most twisted, violent anger to anyone who crossed his path. But those softer emotions: those emotions that led him to a dangerous place inside of him, those were the emotions that he would never show to anyone, except perhaps Nate. And maybe, just maybe – although she scarcely dared to think it – maybe he would show Blair. So now, when he felt her shiver and she took in the crease at their sides, the slight fold in the centre of his forehead, it seemed as if they had suddenly found themselves walking in technicolour – in a world where Chuck and Blair were the hero and heroine of one of those old films that Blair loved.

Or perhaps they were both just tired.

It had been a long, sleepless night of near-misses. Blair had found herself alternating between utter exhaustion and an acute awareness of the room around her. As her body alternated between being leaden with tiredness, or thrumming with manic wakefulness, she felt Chuck's presence next to her. Neither of them dared to touch each other, as if they both imagined a thick black line drawn down the centre of the bed. Nonetheless, Blair had spent a great deal of time during the night taking in the look of his face.

She had spent that time, staring at the plane of his face, the symmetry of his features, in an agony of thoughts. Why had he come to her? Had she somehow drawn him back? Were the events of last night nothing more than a horrible scene orchestrated by Blair in order to somehow summon Chuck to her side. And was allowing him into her life again a sign that those strides she had made towards strength were going to be undone? Or was this a new chapter?

Even that thought was discomforting; Blair had been on the precipice of a new chapter before. And when that chapter had come upon her family, Blair had found herself holding onto the past with white knuckles. It was over a year ago now, when Serena had left for boarding school and Nate was acting strangely. Blair had found that world had shrunk down to the size of her apartment and the walls of the house became a welcome refuge from a social world that seemed more artificial than usual. She had come home early from school, knowing that Eleanor was on a business trip in Paris, and Harold would be in his office at this time of day, so Blair had been looking forward to a luxurious afternoon playing truant.

It was because she knew the apartment would be empty that she didn't call out. And everything would have been fine if she would have walked straight up the stairs and into her bedroom. She may have tried to call Nate, suggest that he come over so that they could _be alone_. Although, she was starting to think that the promise of _being alone_ would not be enough to entice her boyfriend to her side. She might have tried on clothes. She might have done any number of things had she not heard an inarticulate sound.

Even at this point in her life, long before Chuck had opened the world of sex to her the day before her seventeenth birthday, Blair had known what a noise like that meant. And the sound of rustling that followed confirmed her suspicions.

Blair had always been a nosy child; it was not her way to announce her presence if a scrap of information could be found by flitting around the house silently. Harold had more than once sniffed out her presence during one of the Adult Discussions that had been tantalisingly closed to her during her childhood.

"I think I hear a Blair-bear snooping," he'd sing out before running to where she was hiding and tickling her until she was breathless.

So when she heard another groan, she snuck down the hall – convinced that she was about to find Dorota embroiled in a compromising (and undoubtedly hilarious) tryst with some serviceman or other. This would be too priceless.

The hallway was lit by snatches of light from windows, and Blair had always had a little game of jumping over the illuminated parts of the carpet. But this time, she let herself walk in the clear sunlight. When she reached the door of the library, left open a crack (probably in the hope that any intruders would be quickly identified), Blair found herself hesitating; no matter what some people say about premonitions, most of us wander into situations completely disarmed, unprepared and innocent. But every now and again, the sense that something _big_ is about to happen will overcome us. And it is at those moments that we have no one to blame but ourselves if we ignore the urgings of our bodies. And right now, body was waging war with curiosity, nudging Blair back down the hallway and out the front door.

She had to look. She just had to.

The library was far brighter than the hall outside, and the scene was distressingly clear from where she was standing. She would only ever see a sliver of the scene, but that was enough to send her careening out the front door, breathless. There, leaning against his mahogany desk, was Harold Waldorf, with his head thrown back as a man – yes, a _man_ – knelt before him performing an act that Blair would never be able to erase from her mind.

She leapt back from the door as if the sight had scorched her eyes. Her father had been making that noise. Her father was currently cheating on her mother. With a man. Her father had a secret world that smelt of sweat. Her father had a hidden places that would never be open to her. Her father had a lover.

The giddy facts of the scene filled her head as the image she had of her perfect family shattered onto the carpet. Nonetheless, even shocked and slightly nauseous with the knowledge that her life had changed irrevocably, she moved silently. And if she hadn't knocked into the table in the hallway, sending a decorative lute crashing to the ground, she may have gotten away without being detected.

Blair was already running when the man – her father's lover – hissed: "Harold, what was that?"

Of course it was hopeless. Her father must have known that no one other than Blair or Dorota could have entered the apartment unannounced, and it would be a simple process of inquiring with the doorman to find out who it had been. But Blair ran away from the scene because she was never good at processing those events that interfered with the image she had of her perfect life. And no one avoided the light that illuminates a scene quite as conscientiously as Blair Waldorf. So she ran from the apartment and all the way back to school.

Surely a sense of these things should have been lurking at the back of Blair's mind. But, no. There was no hint of it in her day-to-day life, although Blair knew that she had a higher than average ability of ignoring the unpleasant. Now, though, the light had washed across the scene, and the colour of her memories had changed. She recalled snippets of conversations overheard, of lingering eye contact made at parties. And she thought of the way that Harold's gaze would fall on a man in the crowd, and Eleanor would follow his line of vision, before scowling and giving him a sharp word. It was so obvious now: the resigned sadness of her mother, the extravagant compensations of her guilty father.

These thoughts were upon her as she made her way back to school – running away in a fruitless attempt to undo this stolen hour.

At the gate, she had found Chuck Bass enjoying a mid-afternoon joint. She hadn't stopped running since leaving her house, and she found herself wordlessly leaning on the brick wall next to Chuck.

"What's the rush, Waldorf? Did you get caught shoplifting?"

Blair was not in the mood to talk to Nate's best friend. Instead, she gestured that he pass her the joint. She saw surprise register on his face and felt a grim twang of satisfaction. Then, he shrugged and passed it to her, for once lacking the words to respond.

It was the first drag she had ever taken from a joint and the thick smoke filled her lungs and made her bend in half, coughing. Chuck snickered next to her. "Let me guess," he said smugly. "That was your first toke?"

She nodded, still coughing. "That's disgusting. How can you smoke so much of it?"

"You get used to it," Chuck said simply. She was already climbing the steps to Constance when he shouted out, "and if you have any other "firsts" you need help with, feel free to give me a call."

"Well you're high on the list for first homicide," she called over her shoulder, already feeling the veneer of perfection settle back upon her stride.

Had Blair turned around to face him, she might have seen the strangest look on Chuck's face. He could scarcely believe that he had pulled together the stones to make that suggestion; even he wasn't entirely sure whether he was joking. The force of the transgression filled Chuck's cheeks – making him _blush_. He was secretly relieved that she didn't look back at him, as he felt the unfamiliar warmth of his own cheeks.

That night, she and Harold didn't speak of what had transpired that afternoon. They never spoke of what she had seen, even when Roman waited outside the entrance of the apartment block as Harold left for a new life in France. So, you'd think that after a lifetime's practice, Blair would be used to falseness. She loved life to be beautiful, and what happened below the surface, or behind the locked door of the bathroom was no one else's business.

That night, over a year later, lying with Chuck, Blair had found herself sick to death of falsehood.

But there was to be no path-crossing on the night of Chuck's eighteenth birthday; despite their shared bouts of sleeplessness, these bouts never coincided, and so this morning, Chuck was certain that Blair had slept through the entire night, and Blair thought the same of him. Although in reality, Chuck had battled with wakefulness throughout the evening.

When it came to execution, the ancients really had it right, Chuck had mused, somewhere between sleeping and waking, huddled in front of Blair's laptop.

In biblical times, when the practice of flaying was a widely used technique of execution, the apostle Bartholomew was crucified on an upside-down cross, before his skin was removed with a sharp knife. This practice was widely used by the Aztecs in Mexico, and even the Assyrians. In China, until 1905, criminals could be executed through the practice of _Ling Chi_, whereby parts of the body were cut off, piece by piece, slowly and methodically. The torturous process was ended only when the criminal was stabbed in the heart, or beheaded.

But, Chuck had to admit that his personal favourite was the Ancient Persian method of execution: Scaphism. In this process, the naked body of the criminal was encased between two rowboats and placed next to a stagnant swamp. Insects would gnaw on his body, attracted by the sweet taste of the honey that would be spread over his body and by the smell of the faeces that would inevitably collect in the makeshift container. These insects would not only devour the flesh, but breed within it, leading to gangrene and septic shock. The combined force of the blood turned poison and the anguish of starvation and dehydration would lead to a final, drawn-out death. According to Plutarch, that could take up to 17 days. [1]

After over an hour of furtive web-surfing, Chuck had finally decided that only Scaphism would be an appropriate punishment for "that fucker" (as Chuck kept muttering under his breath), Aaron Rose. It was about four a.m., and Chuck had been unable to sleep, his mind roiling with images of the pain and destruction that he would unleash on Aaron if the boy were ever foolish enough to come into contact with Chuck again.

Hearing Blair shift slightly under her feathered doona, Chuck whipped around, lowering the screen of the computer slightly, so the light wouldn't wake her. After her unconscious rearranging, she settled back onto the pillows.

Sighing quietly, still restless and unable to settle down with his thoughts, Chuck one more sat on Blair's bed, looking at the patches of dark on her face and chest – her bruises were visible even in this light. Chuck felt a flare of fury. He had never imagined himself this way: as a gallant defender of honour. With the distance of someone remembering himself as a stranger, Chuck recalled forcing himself on Jenny Humphrey. He was starting to understand how Brooklyn must have felt when he sucker-punched Chuck; for the first time, Chuck felt ashamed of the way he had acted that night. And if Blair had been awake, he felt certain that he would have told her these things. He knew that if he'd had the heart to wake her, he would have told her anything. They could have turned her bed into a confessional.

But, she seemed so peaceful. So he let her sleep. And finally, somewhere around five in the morning, as the sun started turning the morning sky grey, they found themselves asleep at the same time. And their unconscious bodies, lacking the restraint that they had when they were awake, curled up close to each other, so that Chuck's hand rested on Blair's stomach. But, when the sun rose, it took away this stolen intimacy, and they woke up on opposite sides of Blair's king sized bed.

But these were thoughts for night time.

Presently, Blair was doing what she did best: complaining. "I can't believe that you're making me go to _Brooklyn_. Why don't you just do me a favour and throw me into the river instead?"

"Don't tempt me," Chuck muttered. "I've told you a thousand times, Waldorf. I'm not leaving you alone today. And because I have a meeting, that means leaving you with Nate and Vanessa."

"I'm not a child," Blair spat, even as she kept walking. "I don't need minding."

Exasperated, Chuck turned around to face her, walking backwards. "I know you're not a child, Blair. And I don't think you need minding. But this is an important meeting, and I can't go to Bass Industries and convince the Board to let me take over the fucking place if I spend the whole time worrying about you. So _humour_ me, and stop whining like a…"

In his distracted state, he didn't notice that he was about a foot away from backing into a telegraph pole. Without fully thinking it through, Blair grabbed his hand. And everything stopped.

It was in the spirit of Post-Catastrophe Blair that the smallest gesture would have the greatest impact. There they stood, in the middle of Brooklyn, holding hands. Chuck could have sworn that cabs were slowing down, or that he had suddenly been submerged in water. And in spite of himself, not quite understanding what was happening, he ran his thumb over the back of her hand.

Both of them were staring at the joined hands, Chuck still facing her. "You were about to walk into a pole," Blair explained, swallowing and pulling away as if his touch seared her hand.

"Oh, right," Chuck said, inexplicably disappointed. "Thanks."

They didn't say much after that, as Blair berated herself for taking his hand (just letting him back into the pole would have been a viable option in itself). The fact that he still hadn't spoken convinced her that he was about to bolt. But hadn't he _stroked_ her hand? That was distinctly un-Chuck Bass behaviour. In spite of herself, she exhaled through her teeth in frustration, causing Chuck to glance at her curiously.

When she and Serena were young, in one of those all-night sleepover conversations, they had often talked about what superpower they would like to have, and each time Serena had changed her mind. One day she thought she might like to fly, the next she mused that the power of being in two places at once was her singular desire. The world had so much potential, Serena thought – how could one power possibly be enough? But, for Blair there was always only one power to have. She had no need of flying, and she already fit more into one day than most. Blair had always wanted to be able to read minds. And as she and Chuck walked next to each other, she miserably remembered her dream of telepathy, and thought how useful the power would be in her interactions with a certain Chuck Bass.

If Blair had been able to read his mind, she would have found that it was entirely blank, except for a single phrase that echoed over and over:

_Chuck and Blair, holding hands.

* * *

_

When Jack Bass needed to be alone, he didn't go to a lair hollowed into the side of a volcano, as Chuck may have assumed. He didn't return to the gaping maw of hell, either. When Jack Bass needed to be alone, he needed to be alone with _her._

The driver raised an unseen eyebrow when Jack barked the address. It was far from the booze and women that Jack usually enjoyed during his free time. The eyebrow climbed even higher when Jack ordered him to stop at a modest street vendor, so that the magnate could leap out into the crowd to buy tulips.

It was an old cemetery; Bart must have had to pull strings to have her interned behind the wrought iron gates of New York Marble Cemetery. The spot itself was a patch of green between Second and First Avenues, with a stone obelisk among the trees that were covered in green foliage. He had been there before, and found that it was only during autumn that the place reminded him of Constance Bass. It was during the months preceding winter that the true beauty of the place could be seen. And when he had stood before her grave, as it peeked out from its brown cover, he fancied that it was possible for him to lift up the blanket and slip in beside her.

Bart and Constance had been married in autumn, in a church with much grandeur and no warmth. Although Jack had known her to be a beautiful woman, it wasn't until after the ceremony that he was truly struck by her; as the photographer and her freshly minted husband argued over the composition of the shots, she kicked some of the autumn leaves that had collected on the ground. It was a sudden, ecstatic movement that caused the leaves to fly up to the height of her white bodice. When she'd seen Jack (so young on the day), she'd winked at him.

Today, though, the brown had given way to green. The wounded old trees would heal every year: the green would come again. There was some comfort in that, he supposed. The garden was painstakingly kept by a wrinkled gamekeeper, who had viewed Jack with distrust when he'd entered. Jack found himself numb to the beauty of the garden. He found himself resenting the rich smell of dirt and the damp green of the scene. And most of all, he found himself utterly unmoved by the grey stone of Constance's grave.

He remembered the note that she had sent him: _Dear Jack, I'm pregnant. And I thought you should know that I'm terrified. Warm Regards, Constance. _It was the "warm regards" that got him every time. He wondered sometimes whether she would have been that stubborn, elegant woman had she been born to a fishmonger on a pier somewhere on the west coast. Probably, he supposed. But had she not been so damn well-brought-up, maybe they would have had a chance.

She had been cruel. That was one certainty. And she never explained herself. When he had come to her, before that note even arrived at his hotel room, drunk and pathetic – begging her to come away with him, to cast off the shackles of her life with Bart and move with him to the seaside, she had answered in one word.

"No."

There, in the hallway of her house – at the foot of her stairs – when he had stumbled in without even bothering to check whether her husband, his brother, was home, she had said "no" to him. Just that "no" and nothing else. Had he not known her so well, he may have tried to convince her. But when she was set upon something, her will was iron.

When he'd received word of the pregnancy, though. Then he had thought that there was hope. He'd written a pathetic note, full of thinly veiled desperation and anger, with a tiny bit of passion mixed in.

"Come with me," he's written furiously, "and be cruel to me forever."

And that was when he'd received _that note_ from her, folded and re-folded, and in his pocket even today.

_Dear Jack,_

_I'm sorry to have scared you. Because I know that it was fear in your last letter that made you make those reckless promises of yours. Promises that I strongly urge you to forget, and which I will of course never force you to honour. And I could tell that you were drunk._

_I had an image of it, you know. I had an image of meeting you at the steps tonight. You know that my affection for you is far beyond the esteem I hold for my status, my husband, and my entire life in this wretched city full of money-worshippers. And the child in me, the one you always brought out, felt the call of freedom and thought it beautiful. You probably won't believe me, but I even put a bag together. And then I remembered the more literal child in me._

_But then I remembered that no matter how different you are to Bart, you are still a Bass. And Basses are fantastic romancers, and terrible romances. How you men do get taken away by it all. But the fact of the matter is, that after the passion of the offer fades, and you're faced with the reality of me, everyday, in a way that we never had to know each other, you will run. And me, and our son, will be left alone. _

_I know the Basses better than anyone. I know the price you pay to be involved with one. And no, it isn't the money as you insultingly indicated, although I want my son to have every opportunity, to be a king. I also want him to cure us all. I want him to teach our household – mine and Bart's – to laugh, to find its way to kindness. Because a child of Bart Bass will be an example for all of us._

_And what would a child of Constance and Jack Bass be? You always laugh off the six years I have on you, saying that it's nothing and especially not a reason to be as sanctimonious as I am. Even though the young woman in me twists and turns to trade all of my life for a life with you, I know that we will be pariahs, that Bart will see to it that we are. _

_Honestly, even though I love you, I know that it is possible to get over people. You throw around words as if they're free. You promise me the world. And you remind me of how young you are. Because in the real world, people don't run. People stay. And for all your promises, I know that you wouldn't have been there tonight. You would have left me standing on those steps, until I felt like a fool._

_You're right. I have too much pride. Too much pride to be another of you female casualties. _

_So I told Bart about the baby. And he was thrilled – called him our miracle child. He looked at me in a way I hadn't seen for so long. And I knew I'd made the right decision. _

_Think of it this way, Jack. You're going to be an uncle. And now you're free._

_Warm Regards,_

_Constance._

There again, "warm regards".

As he placed those flowers on her grave, as he had every year, (the day after Chuck's birth: the day she died) he couldn't help but wonder about the life that they might have had. But she had made it impossible. She had made his life impossible.

It had only gotten more impossible when she was buried in this place. He had missed the funeral and come here at night, full of hot tears and tearing at the ground. He had watched his brother stare at the son he thought of as a miracle – a defiance of his supposed sterility. And each year he had returned to this grave. It was possible that he was the only one who visited her grave. He knew that Chuck never came here, full of guilt over his mother's death, confused over his father's bitterness towards him. And each year, the force of the death punched him in the stomach – winded him.

Except not today. Something had changed, Jack thought. It was the feeling that came with a magician explaining his trick: the power of the grave seemed gone. He felt certain that this would be the last time that he would visit this grave.

And if he was honest with himself, he knew that with what he had planned, she wouldn't want him to visit her ever again. So with that, he crumpled the often re-read letter in his pocket. With the air of someone coming to a solemn and profound conclusion, he let the ball of paper fall on the grass-covered grave.

He left the "warm regards" on her grave and returned to the limo.

"Bass Industries," he said.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

"Well," Dan said suddenly. "This is fun."

Nate groaned, nursing his head in his hands. "Stop shouting."

Next to Nate, Vanessa rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Nate. Did you _really_ think that last tequila shot was necessary?"

"Vital," Nate grimaced. "Now I am not so sure."

"I think it was the whiskey we started drinking back here that did it," Serena contributed from her space on the ground, where she had been 'taking a minute to collect herself' for the last hour.

"Yeah," Dan smiled down at her. "It was probably the whiskey. Or the bottle of champagne you drank in the gutter outside Victrola. And refused to share with anyone. And threw at me when you were finished."

Serena covered her eyes with a hand. "I did do that. Yes. But it was _Vanessa_ who convinced me to take off my shoes and go swimming in Central Park."

Vanessa got up to make their next round of coffees. "And yet here I am, the only one capable of standing up today."

"And making coffee, I hope," Dan contributed. "Because as riveting as sitting in silence and moaning is, I was hoping for a little more from you guys."

Vanessa glanced at her watch, taking care to clear out the old coffee by banging it loudly in her boyfriend's vicinity. "I actually have places to go, people to see today."

"What?" Nate said, before groaning from the rush of blood to his head. "I thought we were all going to hang out today – and Chuck, if I knew where he was."

Dan grinned enjoying a coffee rush. "It was his birthday. Knowing Chuck that probably meant deflowering eighteen virgins in honour of each of his decadent, wasted years."

"Or procuring enough drugs to tranquilize a horse before injecting them into his eyeball," Vanessa contributed.

Nate rolled his eyes. "I figure I'll start worrying if I haven't heard from him by tonight. But seriously, Vanessa – my dad's got his whole court case thing this week, so we all won't be able to hang out like this for a while."

Serena piped up from the ground, finally returning to a seated position, staring defiantly at Nate. "Although it's not really all of us, is it, Nate? It's all of us – but not Blair."

There was a beat of silence as the old friends took the measure of each other. Vanessa had to resist the urge to interfere; there was too much history between these two – and Nate and her relationship was too fresh for Vanessa to feel comfortable jumping to his defence.

"We've discussed this," Nate said flatly.

"And now I want to re-discuss it," Serena said.

"Blair has enough on her plate without having her drama – on top of my family drama on her shoulders. Besides, she has other people in her life."

Serena rolled her eyes. "Oh please, her father is in France and her mother is on her honeymoon for god-knows-how-long. And besides, you know as well as anyone, Nate – Eleanor Waldorf cares about herself first and her daughter a close eighth."

"Sound familiar," Nate said darkly.

"Was that for Blair?" Serena felt her protectiveness rising. The injustice of Nate accusing Blair of selfishness was too much for Serena's loyalty. Surely, if her relationship with Nate was anything to go by, he was the more selfish of the two. Certainly, Blair had certain high-maintenance aspects. And she was prone to bouts of self-obsession. And she did sometimes get distracted by reflective surfaces.

Now that Serena thought of it, Blair really was the most self-involved person she knew. But it was part of the Best Friend Code not to admit that sort of thing, so she held her tongue.

"No," Nate said, raising his hands as if to fend her off. "That was for all of us."

Dan felt his usual discomfort when it came to Nate and Serena discussing their absentee parents. He had forgotten about Nate's father and the impending legal circus. He felt suddenly very provincial for having a dedicated father who loved him. Eager to change the subject, he turned to his best friend. "So what _are _you doing today?"

"I'm making a documentary on women's shelters for my NYU portfolio." At that point, she saw that all three of their eyes had gone unfocussed. "It's an important issue! These women have to escape from houses where their own husbands – or their husband's friends – beat and rape them. And in order to get away, they have to leave the security of their homes, often their children."

"Do I have to come with you?" Nate asked nervously.

"No."

"Then yeah, V. Sounds like an important issue, and I'm behind you one hundred per cent." Nate quickly found himself with a wet tea towel over his head.

"No seriously, V," Dan said conscientiously, as Serena and Nate exchanged eye rolls at his pompous tone: allies once more. "I think that drawing attention to these issues is a fantastic use of your craft."

"As long as it doesn't interfere with your coffee making craft," Serena contributed, as Nate's head fell back into his arms.

"Thank you, _Dan_. Come on Serena – I thought I could get you outraged about this. You should see these women. They're covered in bruises, they're traumatised. And all because of their selfish, totalitarian – _Chuck?_"

Dan frowned. "I'm all about blaming things on Chuck, but blaming him for every battered woman in the city seems like a little bit of a reach, Vanessa."

"No, I mean – Chuck's here," she said lamely, pointing behind Dan's head.

"Chuck my man," Nate lifted his head at the sight of his solemn friend, with the collar of his trench-coat turned up. "You missed an epic night – where did you go off to? I didn't even see you hook up with…_Blair._"

Nate had seen his ex-girlfriend in any number of situations: proud and defiant, charming and false, and sometimes gentle and loving. But in all those years that they had been together, there was never this hooded look in her eyes: and she had never looked at him, Nate, for quiet assurance and with fond annoyance, like she was at Chuck right now. And for his part, Chuck challenged each of them with his eyes, forgetting for an instant that they were friends. Basically, he looked as if he would put himself between Blair and danger. Nate had no words.

It took the rest of them a moment to notice her standing there. She looked so small behind Chuck, whose arm hovered just behind her back, not touching her. She had done an admirable job of trying to hide her bruises, but the fact was that they stood out against her face as angry shadows. They were impossible to hide, really.

"Wow," Dan said, similarly struck dumb.

"B," Serena started, forgetting about her hangover and sitting upright.

Vanessa said nothing – struck as dumb as Nate. The director in her marvelled at the effect of the dark bruises around her cheek and eye against the pallor of Blair's features. She wore a defiant red coat over her white blouse, exposing her navy blue stockings and patent leather flats. Perhaps it had been a while since Vanessa had seen Blair, but it seemed to her as if Blair had changed. There was still the essential Blair quality: the china doll lips, the decadent curls, and the peculiar way that she held her chin up.

Once more, Vanessa was struck by the parallels between Blair and Chuck. She doubted that they were aware of it. His body was close to hers, he stood slightly behind her, his chin equally defiant. They cut a handsome figure; they could have been lifted from an old Hollywood movie. Vanessa found it hard to believe that there could have ever been any doubt that it was Chuck that Blair belonged with. She wondered how those childish afternoons spent together, just the three – or, with Serena, the four of them – had been passed without someone holding up a hand and ordering that they stop, that this wasn't right.

Presently, the pair was still standing at the door, and they were still staring at Blair's face.

"This was a bad idea," she said in an undertone to Chuck.

"I didn't realize that it would be a reunion for the Non-Judging Breakfast Club," he said, quite audibly, before pulling a chair out and gesturing for her to sit down. After a brief hesitation, she let him take her jacket and she sat on the proffered seat.

There was something so choreographed about the movement, that Serena could have sworn that they had been practicing. She loved so much about Dan – the way he made her mixed tapes and gave her roller blades when she mentioned in passing that she had always wanted to learn. But despite his charming little demonstrations of intimacy, which had been so lacking in her early life, he never moved in perfect step with her. They never displayed the easy grace of Chuck and Blair. Even with her bruised face, Blair and Chuck still seemed elegant, somehow.

Of course, that was not Serena's primary concern. "B, seriously – what happened?"

Blair looked at their faces. Nate was still blankly processing the scene. Vanessa had her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed, clearly outraged. Serena was still sitting in a ludicrous position on the floor. Dan seemed to be staring at Chuck, for some unknown reason. For his part, Chuck was standing behind her chair – and she didn't need to look at him to know that he was sending all of those present death stares. The message was clear: they were thirsty for blood.

But suddenly the thought of telling them what had happened seemed pathetic. She thought of the image of herself pinned to the ground, and how they had already seen her collapse in front of them. How many more times could she appear weak in front of them? Why couldn't they look at her the way that they once had: with respect and more than a little fear. It was the pity on Vanessa's face that threw her most of all. She and Vanessa had always hated each other – the fact that Vanessa hated her was a well-established fact, and one that gave her some degree of stability. So, faced with the thought of seeing those concerned eyes, Blair suddenly decided that she wouldn't be having a bar of it.

"Oh stop looking at me like that. I slipped over and hit my head. It's no big deal."

"Is that why you have a hand mark on your neck?" Nate asked quietly.

Blair mouthed indignantly, pulling her blouse up at the collarbone. "I told you what happened. It's nothing."

Serena shook her head. "It's not nothing, B. What happened?" With dawning realization, Serena looked sharply at her best friend. "Was it…did you see…I mean I thought Aaron was just…"

Blair got to her feet violently, spinning around to face Chuck. "This was a stupid idea," she spat, before storming into the adjoining room.

"Blair," Chuck called. "_Blair._"

He took a few steps towards her, but Serena put a hand on his arm. "Maybe I should go?"

Suddenly, Vanessa spoke up. "No. Let me."

Serena and Chuck shared an uncertain look. "It's nice of you to offer, Vanessa, but I think that with Blair, it's better to…"

"Trust me," Vanessa said, taking off her apron. Serena nodded mutely and Vanessa disappeared into the gallery.

"What happened, Chuck?" Serena asked softly, once Vanessa was gone. All eyes were fixed on his form. There was something frustrated and spasmodic about his movements, as if he could barely control them. So, when he suddenly lashed around and kicked a chair with all his might, it was only by the expression on his face that they knew that it was intentional. His chest heaving after the uncharacteristic display of emotion, Chuck turned to face the wall, leaning one hand on the counter. Serena and Nate shared a worried look, but Dan was still staring at Chuck – he hadn't looked away since Chuck and Blair had entered.

Finally, it seemed that Chuck had collected himself. "That fucker…_Aaron_," he said the name as if it left a nasty taste in his mouth. "He tried to rape her. She fought him off. He was gone by the time I got there. He's lucky. I would have fucking killed him."

He told the story with no embellishment. Each sentence came out like a lashing. All of them had heard people use those turns of phrase – "if you don't put that remote down, I'll kill you", "you're killing me here" – so much that they had lost the force and effect of the action behind them. But looking at Chuck's mutinous face, they felt the very real impulse to draw blood emanating from his eyes, his very bearing. They all felt their skin prickle and none of them doubted that if Chuck had walked in a little earlier, he would have killed Aaron with his bare hands. The weight of it was enough to suck all sound from the room. It was Serena who broke the silence.

"God," Serena breathed. "I knew he was crazy, but I never realized…I mean if I'd realized he was capable of that, I would have…I don't know…"

Nate was still cradling his head in his hands, but this time it wasn't his headache that made his head hurt. "We should have been there – I mean, I should have been…if she had been at the party, none of this would have happened."

"No," Chuck said flatly. "It wouldn't have."

There was an implicit rebuke in the sentence. But before Nate had a chance to respond, Dan shifted in his seat. To this point he had been so utterly still that the movement came as a surprise; it captured their attention, so they all saw the way his eyes were narrowed and focussed on Chuck's face.

"So what are we going to do about it?"

Chuck and Dan rarely acknowledged each other in this sort of company. The last time they had really spoken, Chuck had been shouting at him outside of Bart's funeral. And before that, the course of their relationship had been coloured by resentful exchanges – by blackmail, by threats. But in this moment, it seemed that they had finally reached a meeting of the minds.

"Don't worry. I have a few ideas," Chuck said darkly.

Although he had never been the biggest fan of Blair, Dan felt a wave of protectiveness over her. Dan nodded, once. "Good."

* * *

It seemed ironic that the only reflective surface available to her in the gallery would have been supplied by Aaron's own art exhibit. While the show had long since faded in the recollection of the fickle art community, Rufus had managed to convince Aaron to leave some of his pieces in the gallery. And so Blair found herself staring at her face in the broken shards of mirror that Aaron had painstakingly attached to a gold frame.

It was more distressing to Blair that she didn't hate his art. The only change was that she wondered what had been passing through his mind when he created this piece. What object of obsession had fuelled this piece? Did each of these pieces represent another woman he had harassed? Blair mused that there must have been some women who loved the attention. Although surely he soon tired of that sort; Aaron loved the thrill of the unattainable, whether it was a more transcendent colour, a hue that was impossible to capture, or someone like her: a woman who was desperately in love with…

"Blair," Vanessa said quietly from behind her.

The approach didn't make her jump. She had seen Vanessa reflected again and again in the mirror before her. She didn't turn around, still captivated by her battered face.

"I don't dislike the image of me like this," Blair said contemplatively. "I mean, I hate people staring at me the way they have been, but shouldn't I hate the look of myself?"

Vanessa shrugged, pushing an unruly curl back behind her ear. She was reminded of her conversations with Chuck – the way that they were most effective when she said the bare minimum. "Not necessarily."

Although Blair had been addressing her, when Vanessa spoke, she whipped her head around and crossed her arms. There was more history between Blair and Vanessa than there was between Chuck and Vanessa. This would be a harder process.

"Why not?"

"Because sometimes its nice to see how we feel from the outside," Vanessa said quietly, picking an easy and matter-of-fact tone.

Even though Blair knew that she was right, and Vanessa could see her eyes softening, Blair's entire body was stiff. Her arms formed a protective border between them. "What do you know about it?"

Vanessa cocked her head to the side. She found herself turning around to survey the art on the walls. More than a little of it had been completed by Dan's mother. Even though Vanessa would never say it aloud in the Humphrey gallery, she was not much of a fan of Dan's mother's work. She didn't think that colour and tortured form was enough to make a great work of art. You could tell that she was a woman ill-acquainted with herself from her very brushstrokes. Regardless, they formed an excellent distraction while she spoke to Blair, just like the coffee machine had during her conversations with Chuck.

"When I used to live in the city – before I moved away – I was friends with a D.J., who used to take me along to gigs. His career was really getting started and he had just been discovered by a youth label in the Village. No money, but a lot of street cred. So, when they asked him to frontline a gig around there, I came along. The Sound Producer took a liking to me and offered to show me some of the mixes back stage, after the show."

Vanessa sighed, closing her eyes against the images of that horrible night. Blair's face was expressionless. She could see where this was going.

"I feel like an idiot now, you know. I mean, it was so obvious that the guy was bad news. So why did I go back there with him? I hadn't even been drinking. I just thought…you know…that this sort of thing couldn't happen to me, and that I'd be, I don't know – foolish I guess to assume that it could happen to me. I thought I could handle any situation. Anyway, he gave me a drink. And you know what? When he first started making a move on me I didn't mind that much. I guess I was flattered. But things started moving quickly. I felt groggy and kept saying no, but soon enough I felt myself falling asleep."

"The drink was spiked," Blair said quietly.

"Yeah. Anyway, I was asleep when it happened. But when I woke up, I knew. So I called my sister and she picked me up and took me to a hospital."

When Vanessa glanced at Blair, she saw that the other girl was facing the mirror again. "I fought him off, you know," Blair said, with a little pride. "It was close, but I fought him off. And I don't think he'll be procreating any time soon."

"You were lucky," Vanessa said quietly, relieved that Blair had been able to escape the fate that she herself had experienced when she was far to young to have to deal with it.

"You're right," Blair said mildly. "I was lucky. But I was also stupid. That's why…I mean Chuck is so angry at Aaron, and I feel - "

"You feel as if it was your fault? So you can't get as angry as the people around you?"

Blair seemed surprised by her insight. "Pretty much."

Vanessa touched her arm – a surprising but not entirely unwelcome gesture. "It's not your fault, Blair. You shouldn't be embarrassed. You were a victim of an attack. The people who love you are the ones who see that clearly."

"Chuck doesn't love me," Blair said, looking at her shoes, wishing that the words hadn't sounded so pitiful.

"I disagree," Vanessa said, still touching Blair's arm. "But that's not the point. The point is that none of this is your fault."

There was a ripple across Blair's face, but she soon mastered the show of emotion. "What, do we like hug now?"

Vanessa laughed and withdrew her arm. "I think I'd rather we didn't."

"Don't hold yourself back on my account," Chuck offered from the back of the room. "But at least let me film it."

Despite his bravado, he seemed anxious. He looked at Blair, still looking at herself in the mirror. Vanessa wondered how Blair could fail to see that Chuck cared about her more than even he was willing to admit. He barely seemed to notice that Vanessa was in the room. When Chuck and Blair spoke, their eyes contained more gravity than Vanessa had ever seen in either of them. Their voices were oddly formal.

"I have to go to my meeting now," he said.

"Okay," she said simply, and the arm cross was back.

"Will you be…all right here?" Chuck found it hard to form these concerned words; he had little practice with anything but harshness and sarcasm. It was probably because he had never known his mother, Vanessa mused. He didn't know those coddling phrases to use on a distraught child.

"I'll be fine Chuck."

He nodded stiffly. "Good. I'll come back this afternoon after my thing."

"Okay."

He looked at her uncertainly. Shrugging, he turned to leave, nodding at Vanessa on the way. Vanessa willed Blair to say something. As if obeying this tacit urging, she whipped around.

"Chuck," she said, loudly enough for the word to echo right back into her ear. "Thank you."

Chuck froze, but he didn't turn around. "You don't have to thank me. See you at four." With that, he left. Blair had a frozen look on her face, somewhere between smiling and grimacing.

Vanessa looked at her sympathetically. "How about you hang out with me today?"

"Sounds like a hoot," Blair said glumly, back to being the petulant bitch that Vanessa knew.

"Well either that or you can spend the day with Nate playing _Star Wars_ Wii."

Blair shot her a withering glance. "I think maybe I'll stick with you."

* * *

If Chuck were honest with himself, there had been moments of indiscretion in the sepia-soaked days of the past. He had gotten away with these little moments without anyone – even Blair – catching onto his feelings. Because he was _Chuck Bass_ – and Chuck Bass couldn't help himself.

It had seemed impossible for another person to squeeze into the limousine; Nate was stoned out of his skull and lying horizontal on one seat, while Kati, Iz, Hazel and Gretchen formed a human wall between Chuck and Nate. It had been Chuck who had insisted that they stop by the Waldorf's house to pick up Blair before heading to Global 33. Chuck had found that more and more he had been forced to pick up the slack that Nathaniel had been leaving. More than once, Chuck had found himself on the verge of telling Blair his own theory on why Serena had fled from the city: the compromising position that he had found Nate and Serena in only months before.

But whenever he felt the words forming on his lips, he balked at the thought of humiliating her. He balked at the idea of ratting out his best friend. And he balked at the thought of changing what they – the three of them – had.

"Oh my god – you guys _totally_ kissed," Hazel squealed.

Chuck looked over with only passing interest as the girls he had known since kindergarten performed their usual homoerotic exhibitionism. He was all but immune at this point. And judging by the snorting noises emanating from Nate's unconscious form, the lesbian fantasies had gotten boring for him as well. Chuck watched as Iz's hand wrapped around Kati's waist. He smirked to himself. Well, perhaps boring was too strong a word.

Another snort from Nate. He was definitely not bringing his A-game tonight, Chuck mused. As he formed that thought, a burst of fresh air filled the limo as Blair Waldorf poked her head in. Glancing at Nate's unconscious form, and the sight of Kati and Iz kissing each other before glancing at Nate and Chuck for approval, she rolled her eyes.

"Where am I supposed to sit?" She pouted, her silky purple mini-dress clinging to her body in the slight breeze.

Feeling stoned, drunk, and more than a little brave, Chuck gestured at his lap as the girls squealed with laughter over some Gossip Girl post. After shouting brief salutations to Blair, and pouring her a drink, they soon returned to their games. As always when Chuck and Blair spoke to each other, there was a hint of challenge. When Blair and Nate had first started dating, Chuck had complained that Nate was no fun when he was around Blair. She was a wet blanket, he had confided in his smitten friend. Of course, he had assumed that Nate would never parrot his words back to Blair, but the girl had some kind of super-power when it came to extracting information. Enraged that Chuck thought that she was too much of a goody-goody (he had since learnt that there was a lot more to Blair than head-bands and cotillion), she had gone out of her way to prove to him that she was game for any adventure he proposed.

Although the desire to prove her point – even after all these years – didn't stop her from whinging about it.

"You have to be kidding," Blair said throatily, already in a foul mood.

"What's wrong Waldorf," Chuck drawled, "don't trust yourself around me?"

Blair sighed heavily and stepped into the limo. When she nearly stumbled, she grudgingly accepted the hand he offered. Even on his lap, she wasn't that much taller than him, and so when she spoke she all but whispered in his ear.

"Nate's destroyed himself again, I see," she murmured accusingly.

Chuck grinned at her, swallowing hard at the feeling of her bare legs against his trousers. He scarcely dared to touch her, so his hands were at his sides, pressed straight down on the leather of the seat. "He's a big boy, Waldorf. Who am I to deny him?"

Blair just rolled her eyes. She was used to it, he supposed. She idly picked at his signature scarf. Focussed on her index finger scratching away at the threads that rested on his chest, Blair didn't see the way his eyes devoured the sight of the nape of her neck.

"So are you enjoying the show?" she said snarkily.

Chuck jumped – convinced that she was talking about his intense stare, but soon saw that she was staring disdainfully at her friends, deeply involved in a game of truth or dare. "It's a bit PG-13 for my tastes," he said smoothly. "I could see something more impressive on the internet in the privacy of my own suite."

She snorted.

That was all Blair ever gave him: the very merest sign that she was amused, the slightest indication that she was interested. That was the essence of her fascination to him. She never emoted an iota more than she had to. Where the other girls would giggle and squeal, she would merely watch, smirking. A ring-leader, certainly. But somehow, she stalked the periphery of this sort of thing. And now she was sitting on his lap, wriggling slightly to get comfortable.

Surely, she knew what she was doing to him. If she didn't, there would soon be a very clear indication of it.

It suddenly dawned on him, as she continued fiddling gratuitously with his scarf that she _must_ know what she was doing to him. The thought sent a thrill up his spine; she was doing it on purpose. The thought made him bold; he allowed the back of his thumb to gently stroke the side of her thigh. It was imperceptible to an outsider, but Chuck felt Blair stiffen in his lap and saw the skin on her arms turn to gooseflesh. She looked at his face, which he struggled to keep impassive. She glanced at his mouth, and for a thrilling, deluded instant, Chuck thought that she was going to kiss him. But, she simply said nothing, and looked at him.

He knew that she'd make him regret it tomorrow – she would somehow guarantee that Nate was unavailable for the next week, she would intimate that she was sick of having Chuck around all the time. But tonight, she was frustrated enough at Nate that she would allow him to take just one inch more than he should. He breathed into her ear. "What about you, Waldorf? What kind of show are you interested in?"

"Well," she said softly. "I'd like to see you and Nate hang out without him passing out and leaving me sans boyfriend for the evening."

Chuck's surreptitious stroking ceased immediately. It was as if he had swallowed a bucket of stones. Of course, this was about Nate. She was torturing him because she was angry about Nate. His hands quickly dropped to his sides.

"I'll do my best," he said flatly.

Soon enough they arrived at Global 33 and the warm weight of Blair that had fit so comfortably in his lap was gone. As predicted, Nate screened his calls for a week. Blair giveth and Blair taketh away, he had mused as he sat alone in his suite.

For some reason, the story came back to him as he entered the building in which Bart Bass had spent most of his adult life. When Chuck arrived at Bass Industries, the other Board members were already present. Still new at this, and feeling distracted over Blair, he had not thought to arrive early to greet his late father's colleagues as they arrived.

In fact, he was feeling disorientated, not at his best. The memories of Blair's rejections and his own stupidity of stopping by Nate's house to pick up a more suitable outfit left him feeling slightly out of sync with the rest of the room.

"Thank you for joining us," Jack said pointedly when he took his seat.

"I apologise for my lateness," Chuck said with a forced smile. "I had some business to attend to." Lily smiled encouragingly at Chuck, but he chose to ignore her.

"It's no trouble Chuck," Jack assured him. "If you find that these meetings interfere with your _extra-curricular_ activities than please rest assured that you do not have to attend: we will send you the minutes."

"But I so enjoy keeping a close eye on the direction of the management of my _father's_ company. Especially when I feel that it's travelling in the wrong direction."

"It's understandable to get the wrong impression when someone is so young and inexperienced," Jack said warmly.

The other executives watched their exchange as if they were in the front row of a tennis match. Finally, Lily cleared her throat. "Perhaps it would be a good idea to press on with the agenda?"

Chuck resisted the urge to look at her gratefully. Heart beating in his chest, still feeling as if he were travelling slightly slower than everyone else, Chuck opened the folder in front of him. This was his moment.

"Actually," Chuck said slowly. "I have another item to add to the agenda."

"That doesn't really seem appropriate - " Jack began.

"Come on, Jack," Dave Perkins, one of Bart's oldest friends and one of the few Board members that Chuck really knew, chimed in. "He's Bart's son. We can bend the rules."

As Jack's face darkened, Chuck smiled expansively and addressed the entire room. "As you might be aware, yesterday was my eighteenth birthday, and as per my father's wishes, it is time for me to take control of Bass Industries, provided that the majority of the Board think it a good idea."

"Charles - " another one of the old men interrupted, but Chuck held up a hand and the man fell silent.

"I know that you have been concerned by my reputation. But I assure you that my standing in the community continues to improve because of my community outreach programs."

"Yes, yes, and that's all very good," said Beard Number Two. "But it's not the reputation that concerns us – well, not only that. It's the inexperience. The fact you haven't even finished school."

Chuck felt himself losing ground. "I have been given leave from St Jude's to pursue my business interests as independent study this semester. I fully expect to graduate this June."

"High school is one thing," Bow Tie intoned sternly. "But this is a billion-dollar company. Business school, at the very least seems appropriate."

"A qualification which I incidentally possess," Jack intoned from the head of the table.

The general mood at the table was not particularly enthusiastic at Jack's interjection. Chuck had known that there was negative sentiment towards Bart's prodigal brother (who didn't have the most stellar moral reputation himself). He could have sworn that the mousy woman with the glasses had rolled her eyes when Jack spoke.

"Yes, son," said a man with three chins and a booming voice. "Have you considered college?"

"I, uh - " unbidden, the image of Blair's bruised face wavered in front of his vision. He had to focus. Smooth talking was his forte. He just had to stop these thoughts of Blair. "Of course, I'm weighing up my options."

Lily piped up, smoothly deflecting the interrogation. "Isn't there something to be said for youthful innovations? Maybe Charles would be able to offer insights that…_some of us_…are unable to see."

In spite of himself, Chuck smiled at her pointed look at Jack, who was leaning back in his chair. He showed no particular concern over Chuck's insurrection. And the air in the room seemed thicker than usual. Even though he said nothing, Jack seemed to be controlling the forces in the room. He had something up his sleeve, Chuck knew this for certain. But, he had no idea what it could possibly be.

"Well, that is a fair point," said Perkins, glancing appraisingly at Chuck. "And Charles has shown some innovative potential in the entrepreneurial arena. Why only a few months ago, Bart was singing his praises when we were talking about the job that Charles has done with Victrola."

Chuck felt something lift in his chest. His father had praised him – to a third party. He could sense their wills starting to bend. This wasn't going so badly.

"But isn't that just part of the problem?" Jack had finally piped up. "Just last night, at Chuck's own _birthday_ party, several under-aged students were arrested for drug possession." This was news to Chuck. He looked at the disapproving expressions on the faces of the ancient Board members. "Of course, Chuck can't be blamed for something like that," Jack said, in a tone that implied the exact opposite. "But between his own youthful indiscretions, the indiscretions occurring under his very nose at Victrola - "

A withered old bat wearing a pink cardigan and a sour expression piped up. "Not to mention his association with the _Archibalds_. Gallivanting around with the progeny of convicted felons hardly befits the CEO of a company…"

"The Captain has not been convicted of anything yet, Helen," Lily interrupted coolly. "And even if he had been, his son has never been the subject of any sort of criminal investigation. How can Charles be blamed for the conduct of his best friend's father?"

For all the attention they were paying him, Chuck could have stripped down naked and performed the can-can. The room was full of evaluations of his failures and his recent triumphs. The only two people who remained silent were himself and Jack, who eyed him from across the table. Finally, Chuck was sick of it.

"Perhaps I can give you some useful advice," Chuck interjected snidely. "If you submerge me in a body of water and I sink, then I'm probably not a witch."

"Now see here," Bow Tie objected. "This is not some game, son. Your father was a force of nature, and perhaps you have inherited his talent. But you can't be surprised that we have some very real issues with your personal conduct and your inexperience." Chuck shrank slightly, and Lily's heart went out to him. "Until the Board votes otherwise, your father's desire that the company be run by your guardian, if appropriate, and by someone endorsed by a three quarter majority of the Board if not appropriate, stands. So the only way to settle this is by a vote."

"Okay then," Jack said solemnly. "Let's vote."

* * *

When Vanessa and Blair returned to the Humphrey's gallery after a day of filming, they felt rung out and overwrought. Blair had to hand it to Vanessa: she sure knew how to put things in perspective.

The women they had met today had been battered and pushed to the limits, but many of them were anything but pathetic. They had been subjected to things that no one should ever have to undergo – rape, torture, abuse, and often the aching separation from their children. But when they were interviewed by Vanessa, the displayed an amazing sense of defiance, optimism and strength.

"So why didn't you leave immediately?" Vanessa asked one small and quiet Hispanic woman, who was beautiful underneath her bruises.

"My children," she whispered. "He said that if I left I would never see my children again."

Blair had walked away from the filming at that point. Wandering into the cafeteria, she scrunched her nose at the sight of the instant coffee and biscuits on the table. She had yet to take off her coat.

Even in this place, surrounded by this human tragedy, Blair found herself thinking about Chuck. She wondered how his meeting was going, and she thought about the time before everything had transpired between them, and they had merely been friends.

It was after her father left, when Gossip Girl was abuzz with sordid details of the Waldorf divorce. The fact that an Upper East Side dynasty was fracturing was enough to start the gossip mills churning, but with the additional spice of Harold Waldorf coming out, the scandal was just too delicious. Blair's minions had been experiencing more than a little Schadenfreude at Blair's expense, and the Waldorf household somewhat resembled the trenches at the Somme, so Blair found herself spending a lot of time walking through Central Park, thinking about how fast her world had fallen apart.

She had finally found a space to be alone, enjoying the feeling of being far from the prying eyes of her schoolmates. Feeling herself relax, Blair pulled her knees to her chest and sat on a park bench, shaded by a tree, and staring at the lazy arch of the bridge that crossed the pond that was full of ducks. She remembered reading _Catcher in the Rye_ and thinking that Holden Caulfield was unbelievably stupid to wonder where the ducks went in winter.

Her mind was gliding over such inanities when a shadow passed over her. "Playing truant, Waldorf?"

She didn't bother looking up. "I have a free period."

He shrugged. He hadn't precisely been looking for her, but he had been aware of her absence. There was something different about her these days. Since the time she had breathed her first whiff of weed – with him, outside of school at that – there was less cruelty in her, but more harshness. There was a wantonness about the way she went about destroying her enemies these days. Chuck enjoyed watching her at it. Nothing had changed exactly in the way that they interacted, but he found that Blair was more keen to involve him in her plots – sensing a kindred spirit of sorts, if you will. She had always taken great pains to hide the extent of her bitchery, but now she revelled in her reputation. It was probably for that reason that no one was outwardly challenging her Queen B title in light of her father's desertion. They were afraid.

Chuck pulled out a cigarette, offering one to Blair, unsurprised when she shook her head violently, screwing up her nose. He sat next to her without waiting to ask permission. Even though he could sense her annoyance at being interrupted, he knew that she wouldn't be able to resist drawing him into conversation.

"Have you ever read _Catcher in the Rye_?"

"Of course," Chuck smiled crookedly. "What serial killers do, I do. One of my favourite quotes is from Salinger. _Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody._'"

"No wonder serial killers liked the book," Blair said wryly.

"No wonder." Chuck stared at the lake, thinking about the one part of the book that had annoyed him. "What was the deal with the duck thing? I mean their birds, aren't they? Don't they just migrate?"

Blair gave no indication that she had been thinking just that only minutes before. "What do you think, genius?"

"Glad to see that your father being out-ed hasn't interfered with your wit."

Blair said nothing and Chuck regretted it immediately. She went back to staring at the pond, deciding that if Chuck wanted to sit there it was his prerogative, but that didn't mean that she was obligated to speak to him.

"Listen – Blair," Chuck started, using her first name for once.

"_Fuck_," Blair spat, leaping to her feet. Chuck was so taken aback by her swearing that he didn't immediately notice that she was clutching her arm.

"I love it when you talk dirty, Waldorf - "

"Oh _spare_ me," she spat, turning around to walk away.

"Wait – Waldorf. Are you okay?"

"No! A fucking bee stung me." Blair's face was twisted with so much frustration, that Chuck suspected it was more about her personal life than it was about the stinger that was lodged in the skin of her forearm.

"Let me see," Chuck said.

"Oh what the hell do you know about bees?"

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure that I know more about the birds and the bees than you do."

"That is such a middle-aged woman's expression," Blair muttered as Chuck took her forearm and examined it.

She was not overly aware of his touch, distracted by thoughts of her father and the girls at school. She was in such a state, that there was a certain pleasure to having a source of pain: something to blame. Her mind was still drifting somewhere in the vicinity of France, when she felt Chuck's lips on her arm.

"What the hell are you doing?" She gaped at him, but didn't move her arm.

"I'm getting the fucking stinger thing out. So shut up."

It was a surreal feeling, standing in broad daylight, with Chuck sucking on her arm. His hair was disheveled, the way she preferred it (not that she had any particular opinion on Nate's best friend's hair), and his fringe tickled her forearm. Inexplicably, she felt a flush rise at the base of her neck. She had been aware of Chuck before: he was nothing if not physical, even if they observed a fairly strict distance. Recently he had taken to touching her more. Part of her enjoyed the attention – and besides, it was _Chuck Bass_, so it didn't count. But she had rarely felt so…aroused around him. Her cheeks flushed with the realization that she was getting turned on by a bee sting.

"Got it," Chuck said, wiping the stinger from the tip of his tongue.

"Right," Blair said, taking advantage of his distraction to turn away from him, hiding her blush. "Well I had better be going."

And with that she swept away from him, clutching the area around her bee sting, but careful to avoid touching the place where his mouth had made contact with her skin. [2]

Presently, she was shaken out of her reverie by a nurse speaking to her. "Well aren't you just pretty as a picture," said a booming voice from in front of her.

Blair grimaced, gesturing to her bruised face. "Hardly."

"Bruises or no bruises, you're a movie star," the woman grinned. She had a severe bun but warm eyes, and a slight scar next to her mouth gave her face an asymmetrical appearance that only made her more striking. "I assume that you're not staying in the shelter?"

"No," Blair said, a bit too eager to distinguish herself from the poor women around her. "Just visiting. My…friend…Vanessa is filming a documentary."

"I see," the woman said. "So those bruises aren't the handiwork of a boyfriend?"

"A psychopath, actually," Blair grimaced. She paused and looked at the woman in front of her, taking in her expensive shoes. "I'm Blair, by the way."

"Madeleine," she said simply.

"You work here?"

"We're all volunteers here," Madeleine said, gesturing for Blair to move aside while she reached for gauze.

Blair looked around the room. Through the door was an endless parade of women struck down to their most vulnerable. Blair unconsciously reached up and stroked her own bruises. She had woken up that morning sick to death of falsehood. There was nothing false about the scene in front of her. For once, Blair did not even think of her Yale application when she said, "do you need more volunteers?"

"Always," Madeleine said, surprised.

And that had been that. Blair couldn't help but notice Vanessa's smug and approving expression when she bade Madeleine farewell and promised to see her on Thursday. But, Vanessa had spared her the lecture, thank god.

When they arrived back at the gallery, later than expected, they found Serena leafing through an _InStyle _magazine, pausing at intervals to roll her eyes at Dan and Nate's enthusiasm over the _Star Wars_ Wii game that Vanessa had brought Nate. Blair sat next to her best friend. "Well this is a whole new level of pathetic."

Serena grinned at her. "No – what's pathetic is that all three of us have dated at least one of them."

"God," Blair groaned.

"Could you guys keep it down?" Nate contributed. "I'm trying to kill Darth Vadar."

"Where's Chuck?" Blair asked suddenly. "He's still not back from his meeting?"

"I guess not," Nate said distractedly.

Disappointment flooded Blair, but Serena put a reassuring hand on hers. "Don't worry B. He'll be back. It basically took a crowbar to pry him away from you today."

She smiled. "You're right. I just hope that everything is all right."

* * *

Night had fallen when Chuck found himself slumped at the bar of some dive joint or other, nursing a whiskey, with the empty bottle sitting in front of him. After hours of reflection (and heavy drinking), he decided that there were worse things than having a Board full of leaders of business steal your father's company from under your feet. Embracing the motto that had carried him through his entire adolescence, Chuck found himself muttering aloud:

"Fuck it."

There had been one thing that had truly concerned him during the meeting: the way that these images of Blair kept rising before him, urging him to return to her side. It was the single most important meeting of his life, and all he had been able to think about was the time when Blair had sat in his lap in the limo.

It seemed to him that the past few weeks had been nothing more than an attempt to become someone that he wasn't. What did _Chuck Bass_ care about his father's legacy? What did _Chuck Bass_ care about helping the community? He had lost himself – and he decided to blame Vanessa and Nate. He remembered one of his favourite lines from _Catcher in the Rye_, about never telling anyone anything – because as soon as the intimacy is divulged you become reliant on the person that you tell. And so, Chuck had decided, as his heart thudded in his chest and he rushed from the meeting room, that he was due for a large injection of not-caring.

And so he shook off the person he had been becoming in the last few weeks – months even – and decided instead to get completely out-of-his-head drunk.

He went downtown to a dive bar he had once frequented largely because it was far from the areas frequented by his father's associates. He found himself alone, except for three members of a motorcycle gang he had once been friendly with (he offered them a desultory wave and ordered them a round of drinks), and a few women, drinking alone.

He had honestly thought that his efforts would come to something, he mused through his drunken haze. He had been convinced that if he just changed his ways, he would somehow become a new person. He would have been able to salvage some sort of purpose, to end this feeling of dissolution that filled him each day. With a company to take over, it had been possible to focus on something outside of his personal tragedies. But now that he had failed, he groped around his mind for something to hold onto.

Chuck had never been the sort to try and fail. If he failed it was usually because he hadn't put in any sort of effort. But faced with the rawness of this valiant attempt, which had left him facedown in the dirt, Chuck didn't quite know what to do. When Bart was alive, failure had been inexcusable – not something to be looked upon as an obstacle to overcome, but as something that demonstrated to the world that you had come up short. And so Chuck had grown up with the spectre of failure following him everywhere, sitting across the dinner table from him.

Now, staring at the bottom of the glass in his hand, awash with a clear brown liquid, Chuck tried to remember why exactly he wanted to take over the company. And for the life of him he couldn't find an answer.

At that instant, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Another missed call from Nate. He dropped it onto the bar. That made two missed calls from Serena, half a dozen from Nate, and even one from Vanessa. He almost smiled when he imagined how many threats and admonitions would be in Vanessa's message.

"You know I've been watching you all night," a sultry voice said from behind his shoulder. When he turned around he saw an attractive blonde smirking at him. She was wearing a dress so tiny that he wasn't sure it deserved that title.

"Have you?" He said flatly.

"Yes," she said, leaning close. "I was waiting for you to buy me a drink."

He looked her up and down. Her face was nothing special, but she more than compensated for it in the body. Chuck found himself pausing over his drink, appraising her. He could buy her a drink, he supposed. He could probably fuck her in the bathroom if he wanted to; she didn't seem the sort to worry about romance. And, if Chuck chased the thought process to the end, he knew that soon after he would return to his old life of boozing and screwing. He would be carefree. He certainly had enough money to support himself – and several others – in a lavish lifestyle for the rest of his life.

And what would he be losing, really? The hours of effort that went into painting classrooms, opening new wings to nursing homes. The heart swell of a joke shared with close friends; he knew that he was running out of turns with his friends, even Nate. There was only so many times that someone could hit rock-bottom, really, before your friends start to give up on you.

He could push those people in his life away. He could push them all away and stop spending afternoons at the Humphrey gallery. He could embrace a life that was exciting, superficial, and undoubtedly soon over. He could be like Holden Caulfield – destined for some kind of fall, doomed to endure bitter jealousy at the sight of those people who had found some kind of satisfaction.

He could fuck her, he thought.

"So what is it going to be?"

But he'd be giving up on Blair. He knew, with some kind of extra-sensory conviction, that if he fucked this woman, he would never become a man worthy of Blair. As it stood, he wasn't sure that he deserved her. But, this would surely be the last straw. He didn't doubt that she would somehow find out. His cell phone buzzed again. It was Serena.

**Chuck, are you okay? We're at home and worried about you. – S**

Chuck fixed his bloodshot eyes to hers. With a heavy sigh, as if he were picking up the weight of the world onto his shoulders – of his own volition, he got to his feet, handing the bartender some money.

"Buy yourself a drink, if you want, but I have to see about a girl." [3]

"Girlfriend?" She said, her face souring.

"It's complicated," Chuck shrugged, leaving the bar, and his old life, crumbling to the ground behind him.

* * *

At some point, when it became amply clear that Chuck wasn't coming, Serena had suggested that they all go back to the Van Der Woodsen's house for dinner. She knew that there was no way that she could leave Blair alone tonight – she was secretly disappointed in Chuck for leaving her stranded at the Gallery, after appearing so valiant in the morning. For her part, Blair seemed resigned.

Lily had always loved having a house full of children – even in her wandering years, when she had dated anyone who asked her and often neglected her children, she felt that a happy house was a house full to the brim of noise. Bart had been an oppressive presence in life; even Chuck tip-toed around him. Although, Lily knew better than anyone why Chuck would be fearful of the man that he had always called his father. After the Board meeting this afternoon, Lily was disgusted to see that Jack Bass was turning out to be just as big a failure as a parent figure as Bart had been. As she had been, she thought guiltily.

And now Lily found that Blair Waldorf had gotten herself into trouble. When Lily pulled her daughter aside and asked what had happened, Serena had avoided her eyes and told her that it was nothing, and that Chuck was dealing with it. At this mention of her recalcitrant step-son, Lily had dropped Serena's arm. For some reason, Lily felt reassured by the fact that Chuck was dealing with it. She had always expected more of Chuck than most people. So Serena was able to slip away without further interrogation.

In an attempt to cheer Blair up, Serena had insisted that they get dressed up to the nines. She soon realized that urging Blair to get dressed up when her bruises were so visible was probably ill-advised. But now that they had committed, she tried to put a positive spin on it.

"If we have a high front and a low back, you can barely see any bruises. And your make-up looks perfect."

"Come on, Serena," Blair said darkly, "did you see the look your mother gave me when she saw my face?"

Even before her mother had pulled her aside, Serena had seen Lily's look of worry underneath the indulgent smile she gave Blair and Dan. Nate and Vanessa had gone to Archibalds for possibly the world's most tense dinner with Nate's mother, who was more anxious than ever over the impending court case. Lily had asked so innocently, "Will Charles be joining us?" which made Blair's face darken even more.

"We're not sure, Mom," Serena said quietly, squeezing Blair's hand.

Lily glanced at her watch. "The meeting ended hours ago!"

"Well, who really knows with Chuck," Dan contributed unhelpfully. "He's probably out at some dive bar…ouch – Serena, what the hell?" Serena had elbowed him in the ribs.

She glared at him, until she saw dawning understanding on his face, and a sympathetic look at Blair. Since then, Blair had been quiet, ignoring the gossip that was going on around her: Jenny Humphrey and Eric had joined them for the festivities. A spot of complete stillness in the midst of all the chatter. More than once, Serena glanced at her in concern, wondering where her friend's mind was.

She was thinking about the night, after the disastrous ordeal on the roof of the Humphrey's gallery, when Chuck had visited her in her bedroom. _Chuck and Blair holding hands, Chuck and Blair going to the movies_. And how he'd rather wait. At the time it had sounded so romantic: the sense that with Blair, Chuck could not imagine a space of in-between. That if they were to be together, finally, that it would be forever.

Of course, since that night she had picked apart the sentiment. She had looked at it under harsh lights. She had found it lacking. And now, for the first time, she felt as if she didn't particularly care what happened. She felt as if she and Chuck were not an inevitability, as she had once so ardently believed. Rather, they were just two kids, fumbling past each other on the way to separate destinies.

It had intoxicated her – the idea that their time would lie in the future. But now she saw the reality of it. A promise in the future was nothing but a magician's trick, a puff of smoke and a rabbit conjured form a hat out of nowhere. A magician never reveals his tricks. So Chuck could pull the future out of his top hat without ever needing to be pinned down. The master illusionist.

He had them all fooled, really. The stolen moments of last night, the night spent in her bed, even the friendship he had somehow managed to conjure with Vanessa. _Well_, Blair thought glumly. _Now they will see what it feels like to be disappointed by Chuck_. But there was no victory in the feeling; her face ached, and the dress she wore seemed somehow ill-fitting. She felt as if she were something grotesque.

Finally, she had to excuse herself. As a grim homage to Chuck himself, she went to the roof.

* * *

Lily Van Der Woodsen had never quite been given the credit she deserved. Too often cast aside as an Upper East Side gold-digger, no one seemed to see the iron-clad rationality that informed her seemingly flighty love affairs. Lily prided herself on the fact that she had left each dissolved marriage with substantially more money than when she entered them. And even in the heady days of her youth, when all she had craved was the feeling of wind against bare legs and the thrumming of music in her ears, she had been canny enough to choose inheritance over freedom, money over the youthful romance with Rufus, which could have been gone in an instant.

She was not heartless - far from it. When she fell in love, she fell desperately, immoderately in love. It was her love of romances that usually resulted in the end of each relationship: how fast she could be led astray by a new suitor. And when she met someone new, all thoughts of the previous lover evaporated. She would do anything to reach new heights of intimacy – she would mould herself into the shape required by her latest mate. Serena and Eric could attest to that.

But with Bart, she had been determined to finally settle down. Tired of the dancing days of her youth, she knew that the right decision would be to hold onto Bartholomew Bass with both hands; the man was a solid provider, and at times, behind closed doors, he was playful, sometimes even sweet. For the first time, it seemed as if Lily had entered an equal partnership. And, she had realized that it was time to stop pulling Serena and Eric in this or that direction. So, when she and Bart had committed to combining their families, they had decided that it was necessary to formalize things by adopting each other's children.

Chuck couldn't have known that it was actually at this point that Lily had found out the truth of his paternity. But Lily was at this point an established secret-keeper. So she had carried the weight of the knowledge that had made Bart's relationship with his adoptive-son so leaden, and found herself more fond of Chuck than she had expected herself to be. With Bart's death, that maternal instinct had only intensified, but in the tumult of a lost parent, a lost soul, and Lily's own internal battles – her battles with Rufus over the son she had long ago allowed to pass from their hands – she found that Chuck was impossible to reach.

But now, it seemed, there was the chance that Chuck may allow her to finally give him a home: the home that she had ached to give him since she learnt the reason behind Bart's cruelty. Dan and Serena had disappeared into her room, and Jenny and Eric had interned themselves in front of the television upstairs. Serena had checked on Blair several times over the course of the evening, but the battered girl insisted that she wanted to be left alone up there on the roof. And so for an instant, Lily found herself alone with her thoughts.

It was as if Chuck had stepped from her mind into the elevator in front of her, when he slipped into the apartment, clearly hoping to avoid her, she saw her chance to lay out a plan that she had been formulating for most of the afternoon.

"Hello Charles," she said from the couch.

"Lily," he nodded stiffly, with the sullenness of someone caught out. "I'm looking for Blair."

"I believe that she is up on the roof."

He nodded once, but before he could walk away from her, Lily spoke again. "I thought you did well today."

He shot her an incredulous look. "I was shish kebobed today."

Smiling, she shook her head. "You handled yourself very well. It was a putsch. A coup. And you walked out of there with your head held high."

"Thanks," he said awkwardly, once more inching towards the elevator. Sensing that she was missing her chance, she summoned him to her with the one phrase that no Bass could ever resist:

"Charles. I have a business proposal for you."

* * *

Chuck found her on the roof, her bare back facing his and the entire city spread out before her. The slightest hint of a bruise – the shape of Aaron's fingertips – was visible at the point where dress ended and skin began. His eyes followed the line of her spine to the dimple at the base of her back. He could see that she was surreptitiously peeking over her shoulder. He knew that when she rotated her shoulders and idly moved her long hair over her shoulder that she was putting on a show for his benefit.

And somewhere in the base of Chuck's stomach, he felt a desire as tentative and undeniable as the first time they kissed in the back of his limo.

It seemed like an age ago. And yet here they were, with miles of scorched earth between them, chests heaving after the heat of battle. Once more threatening to crash into each other. Chuck wondered what was happening in her head. Was this just a return to familiar ground – a validation of some sort – or had the paths that they had been walking along finally met once more?

But she still hadn't acknowledged his presence.

Such joy and terror, to be alone with Blair. "There's nothing better than the view from the roof," Chuck finally said.

"What is it about you and rooftops?" Blair asked, rubbing her arms against the cold.

"The way they make human limitations disappear."

She looked at him then, as he leant next to her on the edge of the building. That was something she liked about Chuck: the way he never warned her of dangers, but put himself right there next to her, ready to fall with her. She liked the thought of human limitations disappearing, but she wasn't ready to welcome him back with open arms quite yet.

"Good answer," she said flatly.

"Blair," he started.

"What happened at your meeting?" She interrupted, looking at his profile.

He swallowed, still pained by the humiliation of it, even now that he and Lily had formulated a new strategy that Jack would never be able to predict. He hated the thought of Blair knowing about his failure, but then he remembered the way she had looked at him when he had discovered her in her apartment the night before. The time to be embarrassed over vulnerability had long since passed.

"They voted Jack back in," he said simply.

Blair's face was inscrutable, but she put her hand on his. She didn't speak for a long time and Chuck was still scrambling about his brain for something to say when she broke the unending silence. "They're so stupid," she said flatly. "Anyone can see that you'd be an amazing CEO. They're idiotic for not seeing it."

Chuck was fairly certain that no one had ever said such a lovely thing to him. All fear of judgement washed from him, and he found his shoulders squaring under the moonlight, and a daring come over him. He felt like he could take liberties tonight.

"Well, it won't matter soon enough," he said smugly. "Lily and I have come to an arrangement."

"What sort of arrangement?"

"She and Bart signed adoption papers before he died. I just signed them – she's going to be my legal guardian."

Blair frowned at him. "You came to an arrangement," she repeated numbly.

"Yeah," he said uncertainly. "There's just one catch: she wants me to live here. But I figure it's just a formality." Blair was still frowning. He couldn't quite understand her reaction. "Jesus, Waldorf, calm down. Your excitement on my behalf is overwhelming."

Blair shook her head mutely, before staring out at the city below them. "You are just the most…you are just about the coldest…an _arrangement_?"

"Spit it out, Waldorf," he said coldly. "Say what you have to say."

She finally turned around to face him, her face twisted in fury. "Lily just asked to become your _family_ and you make it sound like – I mean it's all just business to you, isn't it? You don't care about anything except for your father's company, do you? _Do you_?"

Taken aback, Chuck could barely swallow the injustice of it. "Well I'm sorry if I'm not writing Hallmark cards at the thought of the woman who screwed over my father becoming my mother, but I haven't had much experience with mothers, so how would I know how you're meant to feel?"

"This isn't about your mother, Chuck," she spat. "This is about _you_. The fact that everything is a game. Everything is a plan. What do you _want?_ Why is it so important to you to take over this business? I'm seriously asking you – why?"

Chuck's head pulsed. He had found it over and over again – that the most difficult thing about recreating yourself is that no one sees it. Every time he stepped in the right direction, he found another person standing before him, accusing him of being that person he had folded up and put away in a drawer. The fact that Blair was blind to his efforts wounded him. So when he spoke, it lacked aggression. "I did it for you," he said softly.

The shocked expression on her face was enough to diffuse the tension. "You did it for _me_?"

"I don't know," he said, avoiding her eyes. "Maybe. I mean, when you kicked me out, I went to Bass Industries, and I thought that if I could just…you know. I thought that I'd find a way to be…someone…who wouldn't hurt you anymore."

Feeling the need to create some distance between them, Chuck turned to face the grimy door to the stairs that led away from this lofty height and back to reality.

"It's not about what you do, Chuck. I mean…that was never the problem. It was you, the way you never wanted to tell anyone anything that could make them think less of you. All I ever wanted was to hear those things."

The fact that she'd used past tense was not lost on him. He still didn't want to look at her, even though he desperately longed to touch her. "And now? What do you want?"

Blair looked at him appraisingly. "I want to volunteer at a women's shelter on Thursday afternoons. Do you think that sounds lame?"

Taken aback, and slightly disappointed that she hadn't said what he wanted to hear, Chuck finally turned to face her. "Why would I think that sounded lame?"

She shrugged. "It just seemed like something you'd roll your eyes over."

"I roll my eyes over everything," Chuck said with a slight smile.

"That's true."

"What else do you want?" He was starting to get into the spirit of things.

"I want to learn how to cook," she said thoughtfully, glaring at him when he started laughing. "Thanks for creating an open forum of communication, Bass."

"I'm sorry, Waldorf – but I've tried your cooking. And let's just say that if I ever needed a weapon to eradicate an entire country, I'd just airdrop your brownies, and lay back and – _ow._"

She had hit him in the arm with her shoe. "Fine – what do you want?"

Chuck hesitated, tossing up whether to give her the one answer that seemed true. Deciding against it, he bit his lip in mock-contemplation. "I want to build myself a statue in village in the third world, and have the locals worship it like a god."

She laughed in spite of herself. "I want to open a rival fashion house to take down my mother's."

"I want to learn how to play an instrument – start a jazz band. Wear a Havana hat inside"

"I want to go fishing."

"I want to go ice-skating."

"I want to produce a re-make of _Rope_ starring you and Nate."

Chuck frowned. "Isn't that the Hitchcock movie where the two leads are clearly homosexual, and kill that guy they went to school with?"

"That's the one," she said wickedly.

"Oh, you're going to pay for that Waldorf," Chuck grinned, inching closer to her. "I want to refilm _Debbie Does Dallas_ starring you and Serena – _ow_, come on Blair, that was in the stomach."

Blair felt herself being drawn towards him. No matter what silly things they said to each other, it was impossible not to notice that they were taking the tiniest steps towards each other. The wild thing in her chest, that she had caged so long ago was breaking out of her hold; her white knuckles were giving way. She saw Chuck's smile fade as he realized that she was coming towards him. At this great height, he finally found a place where he and Blair could find common ground. Now only inches from each other, neither wanting to take the final steps, Chuck felt a certain sadness fill him.

"I want to have family dinners that I feel obligated to go to, and complain about every week," he said softly.

She nodded. "That you have to wear uncomfortable clothes for."

"When you'd rather be watching television," he said, now reaching out to stroke her exposed arms.

The scene was perfect, really. With the twinkling lights of the city and the dark sky disappearing upwards forever. There was only the slightest breeze, and Chuck's hair was as dishevelled as it had been that day his lips had touched her arm. With a start, she realized that she wasn't cold. Spring had come – when had that happened? Or perhaps spring had come only the make the scene perfect. Blair found suddenly that her mouth was dry.

"Where no one comments on Aunt So-And-So's new boyfriend."

"Grandma's thirty year old fling," Chuck contributed, the words becoming little more than stalling – her hand touching his face, and his hands trailing over her the skin of her bare back.

"Chuck – I," she shook her head inarticulately. But he knew what she was going to say. Without further hesitation, he leant in to kiss her. He was determined to take his time with this moment, he enjoyed the feeling of her breath on his lips, until finally he could not bear to wait for another instant to feel the contact of her lips –

"Blair – I was looking for you!"

_Damn it._

"Hi Serena," Chuck said bitterly, pulling away.

"Sorry to interrupt," Serena said, mentally hitting herself on the head. "Mom was just asking after Blair…"

"It's fine," Blair said unconvincingly. The spell of the moment was broken, but when their eyes met, Blair saw the thrill of what had almost transpired in Chuck's eyes. She dared to drop him a wink. "Come on, Chuck. We have a family dinner to attend."

* * *

Jack sat in Bart's old office, deep in thought. For the last few hours he had been staring at the black telephone, admiring the exact right angle of its relationship with the desk.

His thoughts had strayed once more to Constance. It had been a crowded party at Bart's house and she had been surrounded by people, without rest, for the entire evening. He had been watching her. She would smile so warmly at these people, whose names she never seemed to forget, but who passed through her life so quickly. Whenever she would sip her drink, her mouth would slope downwards and the wattage of her unfaltering social smile would dim a little more.

"Will you give this to the woman in the purple dress?"

The waiter glanced at Jack's face, uncertain. But there was something imperious in Jack's manner that brook no refusal. "Of course, sir."

When the waiter passed Constance the note, she'd looked up, her eyes falling on Jack immediately. Nursing these feelings that had come upon him recently, he was convinced that there was some meaning in that. She regarded him for a long time before nodding. He knew that she would be puzzled by the note; why hadn't he just walked up to her? But Jack had quickly discovered the thrill of secret correspondence: the forging of tiny intimacies that seem meaningless on their own, but accumulate into a hidden world.

So when she nodded, he went to the roof and lost himself in the view of New York, which spread out before him as if it had been placed there for his own amusement.

"What is it with you and rooftops?" she'd asked, startling him.

"The way they make human limitations disappear," he said simply, devouring the image of her in that long, off-the-shoulder dress. She stopped slightly too close to him. And Jack could tell by the look on her face that she wished she could step back without causing offence. He would never allow it.

She looked down at the ground. "I wish you wouldn't look at me like that, Jack."

"Like what?"

Constance never hurried to answer questions. "Like you've forgotten that I'm Bart's wife."

Jack smirked. It was a family legacy. "How could I forget that? I was at the wedding. It was nice."

She offered him a crooked smile in return. "The champagne flowed," she confirmed.

"The quiches were miniature."

"The oysters were plentiful," she drawled. "You know it really is beautiful up here."

He was ignoring the view and staring at her décolletage. "Yes it is."

Glancing sideways at him, she adopted an imperious tone. "Jack - "

And he'd kissed her before she could object. It had been worth it, even after she slapped him before kissing him again. In fact, it had been the single most thrilling event of his life.

Although it had been so long ago, it seemed as if his cheek still stung as he stared at that phone. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. Pressing the button for the intercom, he heard his assistant's voice crackle over the line.

"I would like to speak with Greg Attenborough of the _New York Times_. Now."

* * *

The candles on the table had turned into melted wax, and Chuck found himself losing interest in the spirited conversation that Serena and Jenny had been having about some clothing label they both seemed passionate about. Lily had long since excused herself, seemingly exhausted by the dinner she'd had no hand in preparing. Even Dan managed to interject with a pseudo-intellectual barb. Chuck felt as if his eyes might quite simply fall out of his head if he rolled them one more time. Frankly, if this was family, it was overrated and he was bored.

Until he looked up to find Blair staring at him.

She was lit by the light of the dying candles, holding a glass of wine next to her face, with her elbow resting on the arm that was folded across her chest. They had been sitting opposite each other at the long table for the entire night, but she had not spoken to him, gossiping with Serena. Now, as the evening shifted from the time of socializing to the time of sleeping, Blair found herself taking in the sight of Chuck across from her.

"Ew, man-slides. Why not just wear hemp on your feet?" Jenny squealed, slapping Eric's arm.

"Because that would seem a waste of perfectly good pharmaceuticals," Eric said wryly.

As this conversation buzzed around them, Chuck and Blair stared at each other, unabashed and unaware of those around them. Blair felt as if the magic of the Day of Catastrophe was wearing off, and through the comfortable haze of the red wine she felt an intense awareness of the curve of Chuck's cheek. Feeling the minutes of her charmed day slip away, Blair slipped one foot out of her shoes and, under the table, allowed her foot to run over the inside of Chuck's calf. His face registered nothing, but his eyes narrowed slightly.

"Excuse me," Blair said suddenly. "I'm going to bed."

"No, B!" Serena cried. "We should go out! You're sleeping here anyway, we might as well make a night of it."

"You go," Blair said, still looking at Chuck from the corner of her eye. "I'll be fine. The house is full of people."

"You're no fun," Serena pouted.

As she left the room, she heard Serena rounding in on Chuck, begging him to join her at the bar they had been talking about all night. She didn't catch his answer.

Blair was nervous as she walked up the hall to where Serena and Chuck's bedrooms sat opposite each other. She wondered whether Chuck had missed the signals she was sending him with her eyes – but even if he'd missed them, surely that final foot-stroke had been an ample indication of where she saw this evening going. There had been other signs, of course: the way she lifted her hair off the back of her neck, exposing the nape.

When she reached the door of his bedroom, Blair steeled herself and opened the door. It had been shut for so long that it had developed a slight squeak. She turned on the dim lamp next to the bed, before hovering between the bed and the door, at a loss and terribly nervous that she had misread the evening. This had the potential to be embarrassing. In fact, she had almost convinced herself to leave the room. Until, that is, she heard the door creak open.

She knew he was watching at the door as she pulled her dress over her head, wearing nothing but a bra, her knickers, and a pair of black stockings. She heard his intake of breath and smiled to herself. She never would have admitted it, but she added extra sway to her hips as she walked across the room to take off her pearl earrings. When she turned around, he was sitting on his old bed, still wearing his shirt and trousers, watching her with a heartbreaking expression on his face. In the dim lighting, his face looked more angular – and in her opinion, even more beautiful.

This, here, this moment – this was what was different with Chuck. No matter how many times he disappointed her, and how many times he made promises based on nothing but air, he could find a way to make her feel cherished. The look on his face in this moment was what made all the excruciating waiting worthwhile. Never once had she stood in front of him like this and not felt beautiful. He looked defenceless at the sight of her, as if just the sight of her taking off her clothes was enough to strike him dumb.

"Blair," he somehow located his voice, but the word that came out was more of a whisper.

"Chuck."

There was something drawing her to him. She stood in front of him, tentatively entering the space between his legs. With a trembling hand, she reached out to touch his face. She couldn't tell whether he flinched or jumped at the contact, but his eyes closed for an instant. It was as if he was recording this moment. Tentatively, he reached out to put his hand on the back of her thighs, to pull her ever so slowly towards him.

They wavered for an instant on the brink. _The end of something_. Blair knew, though – she knew that she wanted him to say those words, but she wasn't sure how to ask him.

"Blair – I…"

_The end of something…not sure how long we'd last_. But surely now things had changed. Now that he had found a way to stand up and take responsibility for himself, now that she had found strength somewhere in her small frame. Now that he was here with her. Now that his hands were turning her skin to flames. But his lips were shaking. She suddenly realized that he was scared.

Chuck stared up at her, and with an intensity of emotion that he hadn't felt for months, he was overcome with the need to kiss her. He pulled her down to him, until her body was pressed against his, then, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, he lay her down on her back. He kissed her frantically, and she moaned under his hands. He wanted to show her what he couldn't say. He kissed her all over her body, he kissed those beautiful lips of hers, he took off her bra and kissed her naked breasts. Out of all the women he had fucked – and there had been so many women – none of them responded to him quite like she did.

Chuck was a man who had never quite understood what it meant to love someone. He didn't know how someone could be that exposed in front of another person. How could you love someone when love can be destroyed so fast – and when love can destroy you? What happened next?

But right now, feeling Blair's warm body underneath his chest, kissing her, touching her, he could imagine waking up next to her. For once, he could imagine not wanting anyone else. He could imagine holding her hand. He could imagine buying wine with her, and taking it to a family dinner when they'd rather be watching television. He realized that with Blair, monogamy wouldn't be boring. Her slightest touch, every nuance of her every movement was fascinating to him.

In the last few weeks, something inexpressible had been happening between them. He'd gone to her, first tentatively, uncertain how she would respond. And it didn't make him feel weak, like he'd been afraid of. If anything, he felt stronger than ever, because for the first time, he had someone to be strong for. Becoming someone new was the hardest thing he had ever had to do, but each day he felt like he woke up a little better than the day before. But there was still that one vital thing that was missing.

He loved watching her eyes close as he whispered his fantasies into her ear. He loved kissing her along her collarbone. He loved the sweat that appeared on her forehead – something she would have hated if she had been aware of it. He loved the way his fingers felt when the slid inside of her, bringing her to the brink, then pulling back. He watched the effect his slightest touch had on her.

"Don't stop," she whispered.

But he pulled back for an instant, looking at her face. Wondering what was happening inside of him. For the first time since his father had died, his insides felt still, almost peaceful. And it was because of her. He remembered last night in the bar, when he had wavered between relapse and progress. And although she hadn't tried to influence him in any way, even when she was miles away, getting dressed up with Serena. Even then, it had been because of her that he chose progress. She opened her eyes quizzically. His head was shaking in disbelief. There was something expanding in his chest. Then, just as suddenly, it crashed over him – it was enormous, and it was shattering, terrifying, but it was also totally undeniable.

"What's wrong?" She looked concerned, convinced that something was going to go wrong – that something was going to ruin this. "Chuck? What's wrong?"

_Say it,_ he willed himself. _Just say it._

The day had been full of surprises. He'd found himself in the role of hero, and for once the role had seemed to fit. And with so many misunderstandings strewn between them, surely now was the moment that he had to be brave. _Say it._ How could it be so difficult to string those words together when he felt them with every fibre of his being?

_Say it._

"Chuck?"

"I - " he began, but he felt his heart sinking as he realized that he still couldn't say it. Disappointment flooded him. How much longer would she wait for him? How much longer could he sit mutely and watch Blair finally tire of him?

"I want you," he finally said in a whisper. "I want you so badly."

"Then take me," she said breathlessly.

So he did. And he did it slowly, murmuring the words 'I want you' into her stomach, he murmured them on her thigh, he kissed her neck and his tongue made the shape of the words on her exposed skin. He said it even as her head was thrown back and she said his name with abandon.

He said it over and over, and even though it was true, it wasn't enough. It wasn't until she was deeply asleep – naked – and settled in the crook of his arm, that he could say it.

"I love you," he whispered.

But she never heard him.

* * *

[1] For those so inclined, here are the top ten methods of execution: /history/top-10-gruesome-methods-of-execution/

[2] Bee-sting scene was inspired by the Sufjan Stevens song, "The Predatory Wasp Of The Palisades Is Out To Get Us."

[3] One of my favourite lines from _Good Will Hunting_.


	8. Chapter 8: The Lessons of Lord Byron I

Chapter Eight: The Lessons of Lord Byron I

_25 August, 1819 _

_My dearest Teresa, _

_I have read this book in your garden; my love, you were absent, or else I could not have read it. It is a favorite book of yours, and the writer was a friend of mine. You will not understand these English words, and others will not understand them, which is the reason I have not scrawled them in Italian. But you will recognize the handwriting of him who passionately loved you, and you will divine that, over a book, which was yours, he could only think of love. _

_In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours – Amor mio – is comprised my existence here and hereafter. I feel I exist here, and I feel I shall exist hereafter - to what purpose you will decide; my destiny rests with you, and you are a woman, eighteen years of age, and two out of a convent. I love you, and you love me - at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which last is a great consolation in all events. _

_But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you. Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and ocean divide us, -but they never will, unless you wish it._

- Lord Byron, notorious womanizer, written to Teresa Guiccioli in the front of a book in her vast library. Then placed back on the shelf.

* * *

**One Week Later**

Nate and Chuck's friendship began with an act of violence.

They had met on their first day of school, outside the front gate. Chuck had been standing alone, wearing a scarf over his uniform, and Nate had snickered at the garish colours with the boys he had already met at swimming training months earlier. The way Chuck would remember that day was with the seemingly unavoidable awareness that Nate was always one step ahead of him: already the most popular, already the more desired, even when his knees were knobbly and his cheeks were smooth.

"Take a photo, it'll last longer," Chuck drawled at the boys in his class.

Nate and Chuck had been seated next to each other, both scowling at the news; Nate had wanted to sit with his buddies and this Bass kid was weird. Chuck had just wanted to be left alone. When the teacher told them to turn to the person next to them and ask them five questions about themselves, the pair sat in a stony silence, until Nate (never one to disobey a direct order) grudgingly said, "Where do you live?"

"The Palace Hotel," Chuck said, equally grudgingly.

"You live in a _hotel_?" Nate asked, bewildered.

"Yes. And that was two questions."

"No it wasn't."

"It was, genius," Chuck said, leaning back on his chair so that it teetered on the edge of tipping over.

"It doesn't count!"

"Everything counts," Chuck shrugged.

"You're cheating," Nate said accusingly, his cheeks blazing with triumph; to be accused of cheating seemed to be the worst thing that could possibly happen. Even at this tender age, Nate had a strict sense of propriety. But instead of being outraged, Chuck just shrugged. Uncertain, and lacking at this age the capacity to accept deviation, Nate made up his mind – and he made it passionately. He _hated_ this kid. Thrilled with the certainty of this vicious certainty, he narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. "You're weird."

"How am I weird?" Again that smug smile, that dangerous angle of chair matched by a slightly crooked mouth. He was enjoying this, Nate realized.

"Just are," Nate shrugged, which would, incidentally, become his most common gesture over the next twelve years of schooling. "And I don't want to sit next to you.

"Then move," Chuck said simply.

"Can't," Nate said simply, eyeing the teacher.

"Don't want to mess up your hair?"

Nate shot him a furious look. No one insulted the hair. "I don't want you to go crying off to your Mommy."

"My mother is dead."

The shock of the phrase was enough to throw Nate. He said it so simply, almost coolly, with words that seemed to emanate from someone older than him. It was as if someone had reminded Chuck of this fact every day - said it into his ear when he woke up, whispered it again when it was time to sleep – until the words became matter of fact. My mother is dead. Nate didn't like the way the words sounded.

Noticing that Nate wasn't going to add anything, Chuck continued. "She was trampled by an elephant."

"No she wasn't." Nate found himself getting angry, uncertain, as always, whether he was the butt of some joke that was a little bit over his head.

"What would you know?" Chuck said, still swinging on his chair.

"I know that you're a jerk," Nate all but pouted.

Chuck cocked his head to the side. In the course of the next decade-and-then-some that would elapse between the friends, Nate would come to know the exact meaning of that head-tilt. It was a predatory look; it was Chuck deciding whether or not to go in for the kill. But then, that first day they met, Nate had no idea how Chuck Bass worked.

With narrowed eyes, in the strangely mature voice that accompanies the act of parroting an overheard conversation between adults. "And I know that your father is a gold-digger who only married your mother for money."

There was a line in the centre of Nate's character. On one side were all those slights that the even-tempered boy could manage. On the other, was his family. Without warning, Nate launched at Chuck's chair, knocking him to the floor. There, in the middle of the classroom, Nate and Chuck rolled on the ground, clawing at each other and connecting clumsy punches to young faces. When they were pulled apart, spitting and gasping, they found themselves with a week of detention. Somewhere in the course of detention, when Chuck would replace the whiteboard-markers with permanent-markers, or raid the teachers' draws to steal lollies and comics, Nate found himself grudgingly growing to like Chuck.

And that is how the years of their friendship would be: Chuck pressing his hands on the boundaries and pushing until they gave way and he could sprint over them, dragging Nate as far across as the other boy would allow him to, enjoying the feeling of wildness, but returning soon enough to his state of perfection. And as for Chuck, he would long – with an silent desperation – to put on Nate's personality as if it were a piece of clothing; to be for one day the Golden Boy. To have the respect of his peers, the adoration of his girlfriend, and parents who thought the world of him.

Lacking the ability to be Nate, Chuck would protect him fiercely; he had too much invested in his own image of his best friend to allow anyone to tarnish the image.

Chuck found himself thinking about that first day of school as he climbed into the elevator that would propel him up to the last place on earth he wished to be: the Waldorf apartment.

And yet he had been utterly unable to refuse that matter-of-fact message from Blair: _Nate is in trouble. Come over._

Even now, he couldn't quite say whether it was because of his loyalty to Nate, or the aching devotion he felt for Blair, even after all that had elapsed since that blissful night at the place he had finally come to call "home". When he had seen her name on the screen of his phone, he had allowed himself briefly to hope that she wanted to talk about what they were to each other. Chuck recalled how he had felt in the first, breathless days after that very first time with Blair – how worried he had been that he was an also-ran to Nate. It wouldn't be the first time.

As the elevator door opened, Chuck barely had time to register Blair (looking like an apparition in a white shift dress) before his eyes fell on Nate, slumped against the wall of Blair's entrance hall.

"What happened?"

Even though she had invited him, Blair spoke to him with unwillingness emanating from her very posture. "He took a leaf out of your book," she said simply. "Decided to take his problems out on his liver."

"I'm an example to the kids," Chuck said wryly, noticing suddenly that he and Blair matched: the beige cardigan she wore (an uncharacteristically lacklustre colour – and Chuck dared to hope that it was because she felt as wretched as he did) was the exact hue of his own.

"Can you move him?"

Wordlessly, Chuck carried him to the couch in the living room. It was only then that Nate finally made any audible sign that he was conscious. Grabbing the front of Chuck's shirt, he murmured, "Why did he do it?"

"He was scared," Blair said suddenly. For the first time that evening, she looked at Chuck. "He didn't want to lose everything. His life became trying to hide it."

With that, Nate fell into a deep slumber. After a brief pause, Blair suddenly spoke, her arms folded across her middle. "He can't stay here."

"Why not?"

"Eleanor and Cyrus will down in the morning," Blair said simply.

Chuck had not forgotten about the fiercely fragile Eleanor Waldorf and her miniscule new husband. He did not relish the opportunity to once more come into contact with Eleanor, after their disastrous last meeting.

"What do you propose we do with him?"

The moment he uttered the word "we", he saw Blair's cheek twitch. The sight filled him with hope; perhaps she wasn't as unaffected as she appeared. He dared to glance at her face.

"You need to take him to your place."

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "Lily will love that."

Blair scoffed. "As if Lily Van Der Woodsen will notice."

Something occurred to Chuck as he watched his slumbering best friend, his face darkening with the realization. "What was Nate doing here, anyway?"

She was gentler now. "He knocked at my door, Chuck. I didn't invite him."

"Why did he come to you?"

She half-smiled. "I think he was feeling nostalgic."

It was cruel of her, really, to refer to that time when she and Nate had been together. It hurt Chuck to remember that no matter how tangled their relationship became, there was always the chance that his predecessor may be more significant. Sometimes, Chuck tried to imagine what life would be like if Blair and Nate had stayed together: if Nate had touched her on the shoulder as she climbed into the limo Chuck had sent for them, biting back tears (Chuck had imagined the scene down to the merest detail), and had said, "Blair – wait." Perhaps her slim shoulders would have squared and she would have turned around. And everything would have been different.

"Of course," he said stiffly.

"I'll go make him some coffee, you get him upstairs and into the shower. Sober him up."

"The Serena Special," Chuck contributed.

"Exactly."

She turned to walk away. Once Nate was conscious it would be impossible to catch her by herself. When their common task was complete, there would be nothing to keep him here, and he would have to attend to his friend. Now, though. Now they were, for all intents and purposes, alone. Staring at her retreating back, Chuck felt a sudden terror that he was wasting an opportunity.

"Blair," Chuck said, desperately. "Can't we just, can't we go back to a week ago, before everything got so fucked up?"

She gave him an incredulous look. "You think it was only _last week_ that things got fucked up?"

"I suppose not," he said, smoothing invisible wrinkles form his cardigan. "But I still want you to stay."

"What's the point?"

She was standing on the border between this room and the next, teetering between walking away and walking back to him. He had spoken her exact feelings; a week ago she had fallen asleep in his arms, and tonight they were as far apart as ever. A week ago she had been hopeful, terrified and ecstatic. Today, she found herself wrung-out, exhausted and verging on tears. There seemed no end to the number of tears she was destined to shed for Chuck. Until, of course, she made the decision to walk away.

"The point is that I want you to stay," Chuck said, knowing that it would never be enough. He lamented once more his inability to say the _right_ thing. Judging by the droop of Blair's shoulders, and the sinking of his own heart, there would be no halfway tonight.

"It's not enough," Blair whispered sadly, turning to walk to the kitchen.

He remembered the scene he had concocted between Nate and Blair – the road not travelled. It was such a little thing – the passage from this room to the kitchen, and yet Chuck felt it was a moment for the ages: the most important moment he would live with Blair. If she left this room, she would be leaving his life. He knew this somehow. He had to stop her.

"Blair – wait."

She didn't square her shoulders, so it wasn't exactly the way he had imagined it may have been with Nate if he had said those words. Rather, her shoulders drooped slightly more – if possible. But, she did turn to look at him. And even now, the electricity of their eye contact felt as if it were a physical blow. Chuck sucked in a deep breath, struck by the power of it, and in a single moment of melting eye contact with Blair, relived the week that had started so well and had fallen so darkly and completely to the wreckage that he saw between them now.

**One Week Earlier**

Even through the woolly dullness that came with the slow return to consciousness from sleep, Chuck's hand reached out to touch her. But all his hand found was a vast expanse of bed, as if the memory of what had transpired last night was no more than a dream that would slip away after a few minutes. But when he opened his eyes, noted his nakedness under the sheets, and smelled the scent of her perfume all over him, he knew that he hadn't been dreaming.

Blair had been there, but not now she was gone.

There was probably some kind of karmic force at work, Chuck mused as he pulled on his boxers. He couldn't estimate how many women he had left in just this position. Perhaps they too had wanted to wake to find that the previous night had not been a dream, to feel the first, dull thoughts turning to clarity at the sight of someone that has slept beside you all night. There were things he wanted to say – the simplest things, things that occurred to him in his dreams that night.

Despite the deep sleep, the night had been filled with darker dreams, which seemed to be all that Chuck was capable of these days. Over time, however, the dreams of Bart's death had lost their potency, and gruesome dreams had been replaced by dull memories that had invaded the dreamscape. This night he had been visited by the memory of the time he had wished that Bart was dead. It was shortly before he had become more immune to his father's (yes, his _father_, he thought bitterly, thinking of Jack) disappointment: before he had come to accept that Bart simply expected the worst of him, so why not do some damage on the way?

He had just pitched Victrola to Bart and had been left standing near the cherry eating woman, red-faced, humiliated and once more finding himself failing. But this time, after all the work he had put into that proposal, only to be met with disdain by the one man he wanted so desperately to impress, he found a horrible thought coming upon him.

_I could do it if he were dead. If he were dead I could do anything I wanted._

And the fact was that he hadn't revoked the thought after thinking it; instead he had teased the image around the edges – expanded until he was at the head of the company, until he was the tycoon. Until he was feared and respected. The image had become more and more decadent as he'd become increasingly intoxicated.

It wasn't until Bart came to Victrola that Chuck abhorred the thought. For some reason, he would have liked to tell Blair this dreaming memory. The feeling of wanting to expose himself to someone else was new to him, and it scared him a little. But he somehow felt that Blair would have been able to say something perfect. She could be very sweet sometimes. And maybe confessing did actually lighten the soul. He wanted just once to share something shocking with someone and to find them next to him still.

But, like those women over the years that he had left, he found himself feeling suddenly very small in a bed too large for one person. Though, really, he didn't have time to muse over past mistakes this morning. He had to find Blair.

He had slept so deeply that it was hard to shake off the feeling of sleepiness that hung from his limbs, making him feel leaden and slow. He walked through the house, expecting at any moment that he would come upon her, gossiping with Serena and Lily, telling Eric that his clothes clashed – and that no self-respecting gay man would _ever_ wear a cropped vest, and really Eric, why not just move to the Village? But she was nowhere to be found, and Chuck stood in the living room, looking lost and bewildered, and still shirtless.

He felt like a stranger in that room, not only because it had been so long since he had lived there, but also because he found the entire place suddenly distasteful. Despite being such an aesthete when it came to clothes and women, he had never truly taken measure of his surroundings; whatever Bart had liked had seemed like the only option, and so often he simply sat at the table with a sick-feeling, hoping that he didn't mess up too much over dinner. No matter what people said about being criticised, it is freeing. One took liberties in that situation. Nothing was too vile for someone already reviled.

Looking around the room, he decided suddenly that he didn't like the Spartan modernity favoured by Lily and Bart when they had been married. Some of the pieces of art he liked; but not the garish pieces – the Prada painting with an arrow leading the eye up the hallway. Something in Chuck balked at that; he had always been appreciative of subtle beauty. He liked complex beauty. He liked beauty that came to you in waves. So really, his favourite piece of art was the Kandinsky that Lily's art dealer had chosen. It was a priceless piece – and many people disliked it. The images were crowded into one corner, rich fuchsia, purple, red and turquoise, all sharp and threatening to burst from the frame. The bottom of the painting was more watery, it drifted and blurred until it faded to nothing.

If Chuck had his own house, he thought, standing there in his boxers, probably cutting an incongruous figure, staring at the artworks he had grown up around, he would not decorate in this soulless, modern way – with those single stalked orchids. He would like a house full of pieces as original as that Kandinsky. He'd travel the world, perhaps. He would fill the house with birdcages from the far climbs of Asia and rooms would be lit by red chandeliers. And perhaps there would be that dreaming elegance that Blair seemed to like.

Blair.

He looked around the room, although he knew it to be empty. Nothing. Why had she gone? What did this mean? Was this another game? Surely this had been what she'd wanted? His thoughts were interrupted by Serena.

"God Chuck, let's keep a little mystery – go put some clothes on!" Serena shielded her eyes from the sight of his exposed torso as she walked down the hall.

"Where's Blair?" He demanded, ignoring her hilarious performance.

Serena cocked her head to the side. "Why?"

"Spare me the inquisition, Serena, and _tell me where Blair is_."

Serena looked at Chuck's dishevelled hair and the way his shoulders tensed and his arms crossed at his chest. The entire set of him was anxious. His foot bounced up and down, waiting for her to divulge the information. She took pity on him.

"I thought you'd be able to tell me, Chuck," Serena said, softly. "She wasn't in my bed when I went to sleep. She must have snuck out this morning."

"Where would she be going?"

His knuckles were white, and Serena realized that he was squeezing his arms so tightly that it must have been painful. Serena felt a thrill of foreboding. "Well, it's a school day, Chuck. So I assume she's getting ready for school. But, what is this about? What happened?"

"Charles," Lily said enthusiastically as she walked down the stairs, followed by Jenny and Eric. "I was hoping you'd be joining us for breakfast. If you have nothing pressing to do today, perhaps we could…"

"I'm going to school," Chuck said suddenly, as both Eric and Serena turned to gape at him, and Jenny looked between them in confusion.

Lily smiled in real pleasure. "That is excellent news. Come on – let's have a family breakfast."

Serena grabbed Chuck and pulled him close to her. "What did you do to her now?"

"Nothing," he whispered back.

"Then what is this new-found interest in your education?"

Chuck ignored her, and instead returned to his room, determined to dig out his old school uniform, and more determined still to find her.

* * *

A while after Chuck had drifted off to sleep, exhausted by their nocturnal activities, Blair had found herself wide awake and trembling with the force of what had transpired between them. Careful not to wake him, she climbed out from under his sheets and stood in the centre of his dark room, wrestling with herself. Unwilling to leave, but feeling an irresistible impulse to run from the room, she settled for the bathroom. Then she would have an excuse for not being in bed, if she needed one.

Looking at herself in the mirror, swimming in his bathrobe with the sleeves rolled up to expose her small hands, Blair was struck by her own bleary eyes and messed up hair. Even she couldn't deny that there was a glow about her. Feeling foolish for being in the bathroom for no apparent reason, Blair turned on the faucet to wash her hands. With more force than was necessary, she scrubbed her fingers and palms until they were pink.

It was only then that she realised that she was crying.

The complexity of her emotions stunned even Blair, who had always considered herself surpassingly 'deep'. On one hand, she was overwhelmingly happy to find her skin once more burning under Chuck's hands. There was relief that she was still desirable to him, relief that she had not lost him, and the first, glancing notion of the possibility that maybe he was finally ready to commit to her.

And yet here she stood, sobbing into her raw hands, because she knew that with Chuck, there would be nothing but heartache. She found herself overcome with the wish that they could rewind time, to her sitting in that limousine with him, so long ago. And she would never have kissed him. Of course, she knew that it was impossible. As impossible as ever moving on from him. Perhaps that was the real cause of her tears; she had finally come to recognise that she would love him for as long as she was breathing.

It was a certainty that had none of the youthful romanticism that her mother would have assumed; she wished with all her might that it wasn't true. But some kind of intuition visited her that night, and told her that she might one day move on, move to some new lover, who would fulfil all her dreams. And that even then, she would love this complex, damaged man who slept so silently and vulnerably in the room outside the bathroom door.

"So weak," she hissed at her own reflection, tears finally drying.

She had exposed too much of herself – _again_. She had told him how she felt while asking nothing in return. And now their pattern would be replayed once more: he would panic, she would remember his darkness and it would bring out her own, before he would inevitably run, and leave her wounded and small because she did not have the heart to hurt him.

Why even bother waiting for it to happen?

Leaving the bathroom, leaning on the doorframe, staring at the back of his head, Blair felt suddenly certain that she could no longer stay in this room, which was pressing her from every side.

So she gathered her things from Serena's room, assuring the sleepy girl, "it's just me, S. Go back to sleep."

And when she left the Palace, she found that the sun was turning the night sky gray, and that the first waking-up sounds of the city were beginning: the shattered glass of the garbage collectors, the beep-beep of a car being unlocked.

For some reason, as she sat in the cab that would take her back to her house, still fingering the bruise on her face (enjoying the pain that came with pressing it lightly) she remembered an insignificant afternoon at Constance, when the St Jude boys had joined them in their hall for a mind-numbing "ethics" class.

Blair had relished the opportunity to parade Nate in front of the girls in her year, clutching his hand and making a spectacle of them. Until, that is, Chuck had leaned into her ear and said, "Take it easy Waldorf. I can see Nathaniel eyeing the exits as it is."

"No he isn't," she'd whispered back, furiously, before noticing Nate's red-faced embarrassment at her over-the-top affection. She dropped his hand immediately and sidled away for him, stung when she noticed his posture relax.

Chuck just smirked.

He had sat on Nate's other side, and for some reason, Blair was frustrated that she couldn't see Chuck's face. The hall was a sumptuous, wooden affair, full of long pew-like chairs, pointing towards a formidable lectern. Kati sat to her left – and Blair felt a pang when she thought that the seat should have belonged to Serena, wherever she was. The headmistress droned on about the ethic of social responsibility that Constance and St Jude's aspired to instil in every student. The abstracted, scholarly head of St Jude's nodded vaguely, undoubtedly composing his grocery list as she spoke. It took several attempts on her behalf to capture his attention.

He jumped slightly when he realized that he'd missed his cue. Chuck peeped around Nate and rolled his eyes at her. She half-smiled in response. Nate stared fixedly ahead. Trying to rebuke them with his dignified silence, she assumed. Not for the first time that year, she found herself wishing that Nate were slightly more…wild with her. That he wasn't always so upstanding. That he was more flawed. More like – but no. She bit that thought back.

"Now," the tall, grey-hair man started, "I want all of you to write on a piece of paper what is priceless to you – what you would trade all of your money, all of your privilege for. The sentence should start with 'I would trade my trust fund for…' These will be anonymous, so be as candid as you desire. We will type up a selection of them and print them to guarantee confidentiality. At least one sentence, thank you."

The room seemed to shift as her classmates lost focus and started thinking about other things. Some stared at their phones, others doodled in notebooks – one tortured-artist type was writing in his Moleskine, pausing contemplatively every few minutes before writing feverishly for a sentence or two. His name was David or Daniel – some scholarship kid who flew considerably below her radar. Bored, she glanced at Kati, text messaging next to her. Blair was convinced that there was some boy in her life, but she was having no luck collecting intelligence about him. Even now, Kati angled her phone away from Blair, who raised an eyebrow in rebuke. There were no secrets in their group, she silently reminded Kati.

Staring at the paper before her, Blair thought about the question. What was worth her trust fund? What would she trade anything for? Out of habit, her eyes fell on Nate. Once, his name would have been enough to summarise all of her hopes for the future. Now, she was not so sure. Chewing her lip, eyeing Nate, who wrote his answer so quickly, she struggled.

"Just write anything," Nate said gently, folding his paper up.

She noticed that Chuck was taking his time. Or perhaps he was just having eye sex with one of the younger girls. She couldn't quite make out what he was looking at. Focussing on her own sheet, she finally wrote something down.

_I would trade my trust fund for a chance to be someone other than myself for one day. _

Without second-guessing her answer, she folded up the paper. The headmistress was stalking the aisles. As the bell rang, Blair was overcome with the desire to see what Nate had written on his sheet, the chance to have an insight into his mind for the first time in months. When the Headmistress walked passed, she generously offered her services in collection. When she nonchalantly collected Nate's paper, she felt for an instant that he gripped upon the paper too intently, that his knuckles whitened slightly with the force of his hold. He even tried to shove his answer underneath those written by his classmates.

Chuck just gave her a knowing glance, muttering "diabolical" under his breath.

Her eyes did not leave Nate's folded up piece of paper – the thought that had come so fast, but which he held onto so intensely still hidden from view – until she found herself in the headmistress's antechamber.

"I'll just leave them here, Headmistress."

"Thank you Blair," the harried woman said absently.

She never noticed the two papers that she had slipped into her pocket, which burned next to her thighs until she reached the sanctity of the girls' bathrooms. On an impulse, always in the unconscious desire to accumulate more knowledge about Chuck Bass, she had pilfered his answer along with Nate's. But even with her higher than average curiosity about the goings-on of Chuck's mind, she barely spared his answer a thought in her desperation to read Nate's words.

There in the dusty sunlight of the mid-afternoon, Blair found herself reading his words with incomprehension.

_I would trade my trust fund for the chance to be free_.

Her eyebrows furrowed over the words. She read them three times before nodding seriously and shoving the distasteful sentence into her pocket. Idly, she stared out of the window above the wooden bench she sat on. The day was warming now, and soon it would be spring. And Nate wanted freedom. What did her boyfriend want to be free of? Free of responsibility? Certainly. Free of expectations? Undoubtedly. She scarcely dared to think of what other prisons Nate might be trying to break out of.

She had seen him look at Serena's impulsive, coquettish bohemia with envy. Of course, he didn't see – like Blair did – that Serena was as trapped as the rest of them. She just trapped herself in new ways, found a way to decorate her cage. But Blair had no doubt that eventually, Serena's youthful exuberance would fade to anecdotes of a misspent youth when she finally took up her mantle as an Upper East Side institution. No, Nate didn't understand freedom. Not really.

It was difficult to keep thoughts of Nate wanting to be free of her – Blair – at bay. So she found herself strolling to the door, ready to lose herself in the daily ritual of Constance. She was almost at the door when she remembered Chuck's scribbled answer. With slow fingers, she unfurled the paper that he had folded so intently into a tiny square. The folds had warped the surface of the paper, but the words were still clear.

_I would trade my trust fund to be my best friend. _

Blair swallowed, feeling as if Chuck's secret was somehow more private than Nate's. Somehow she knew that Chuck would soon regret being so frank, would be overcome with a desire to retrieve this little piece of his secret places. And so, she hurried over to the window once more, pulled it up with a tortured scrape, before ripping Chuck's answer into minuscule pieces and throwing them to the air. With a brief hesitation, Blair ripped Nate's answer up and threw it to the air as well.

And then she pulled on her Blair veneer like a costume and prepared to take up her role as Queen B once more.

Presently, Blair mused that she, Nate, and Chuck had all been closer than ever that day, had any of them been willing to articulate the feelings they had had that day. Each of them, really, wanted to be free of themselves. And for the first time in many years, Blair found herself wishing that she could step outside herself for another day.

With a heavy sigh – still very much Blair Waldorf – she commenced the arduous process of readying herself for another exhausting day in her own skin.

* * *

There in the middle of Central Park, had stood the most romantic, rickety looking Ferris wheel that Chuck had ever come across. It had been white, lined by ferry lights, with seats that would have looked more in place on the veranda of an old southern plantation house than on the incongruous metal frame of an out-of-place ride in some hackneyed carnival.

They had been dragged here, by Blair and Serena, and Nate was as always unable, or unwilling to say no to his high maintenance girlfriend's wishes. Presently, Blair stood slightly in front of Chuck, staring at the steep wheel that towered before them. He had been aware of geometric shapes that day: the large circle of the wheel, the rectangles of the seats, the white hourglass of Blair: wearing a whimsical write dress, pinched at the waist by a large belt. She had pulled her melting brown curls into a side ponytail.

She fit in with the image he had of the ride: somehow whimsical, somehow romantic. And for some reason, Chuck found himself moved by the image of her looking so pure. The white of her skin was as pure as the white of her dress. And for the moment, they were alone; Serena had dragged a very willing Nate off to get fairy floss and shoot ducks. It always seemed to end up this way: with Chuck minding Blair while Nate followed helplessly after Serena. For his part, Chuck had very little patience for Serena, although she had improved drastically since she had begun hanging out with Georgina Sparks more. There was something devilish about that pair.

Displaying the surprising empathy he had for Blair, Chuck realized that she must be lonely without Serena. And as the thought formulated, the entire scene shifted in his mind to match the tone of his thoughts. Now Blair's pretty dress seemed mournful, and the cast of her narrow shoulders seemed defeated. Staring at her through this lens, Chuck was somewhat surprised when she finally spoke.

"How many safety codes do you think it's violating?"

He smiled slightly. "About forty."

"At best," she said, regarding the structure with head cocked.

"It's still the second best ride at this carnival…"

Confusion played across her face. "Why second?"

Chuck grinned. "I'm the best ride."

Blair groaned. "Well you've had a lot of practice."

"It makes perfect," he agreed solemnly. "Do you want to have a ride?"

It took a moment for him to realize how that must have sounded. To his surprise, instead of looking horrified at the suggestion that she "have a ride" on him, her cheeks filled with red. She had _blushed_. It was as if his words had pushed into motion a series of thoughts that had embarrassed her. With a thrill, he realized that she must have been thinking about just what "riding" Chuck would be like.

The notion that she had been thinking about it: that even on a subconscious level, she had played out a scene where she and Chuck had…well, the thought liberated his own fantasies. Chuck found himself – for the first time, explicitly thinking about – wondering what it would be like. In the moment of friction that had passed between them, Chuck imagined taking her on the Ferris wheel that stood before them, imagined her leaning over and kissing him. He would probably pause at that moment, ask her something – make sure that this was not a dream. And then, there, at the rickety heights of the wheel, overlooking the park, Chuck would slide his hands under that white dress.

Shaking his head, he tried to focus on Blair. He could never truly be sure, but he thought that at that moment they were thinking exactly the same thing. And the thought of it thrilled him.

Sometimes a line will come to you, and it will flick you between the eyes: send a thrill of electricity from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. It might be something as simple as: _He threw it all away and cleared off_. Or maybe it would be the words: _She undid her dress_ or _Take that, you bastard_. Certain phrases leave us flushed and stirred. But to Chuck, out of all the words that could be fashioned together into a phrase, there was nothing as intoxicating as: _She wants you to kiss her._ And for a brief moment, it seemed as if it were true. She wants you to kiss her. [3]

"I think I'll pass," she said sniffily.

"I meant on the Ferris wheel, Waldorf."

She sized it up. "I don't know, Bass."

"We both know you hate fast rides – and that I like to take my time," he lowered his voice suggestively. "So let's go."

He sensed that part of her wanted to strain over her shoulder to see where Nate was. The thought irked him, and it seemed as if convincing her to go on the ride with him would be a victory: a tiny instance of Blair choosing him over Nate. And just once, he would like to best his best friend at something – even as insubstantial as this. And so, he placed his hand on the small of Blair's back and gently propelled her forward.

"If I die I will kick your ass, Bass."

"Colour me terrified."

As the wheel groaned into moving, Chuck felt a thrill at his small victory. Drunk on the power of leading someone astray, Chuck sat slightly closer than was necessary. The hairs on his arms just touched her smooth skin. Another tiny victory when she didn't shuffle away.

There was nothing improper – not really – about how they sat with each other. But, it was a night of taking liberties, and as they ground to a halt, far above the ground, Chuck found that the view of the treetops put him in the mood to test boundaries. The fictional image of Blair leaning over to kiss him swam in his head. The thrilling pull of the forbidden, Chuck supposed. And Chuck was never one to deny his mind the delights of fantasy.

"Serena would have loved this," Blair sighed.

"She's probably too coked-up to notice," Chuck muttered.

Blair stared stonily ahead, trying to ignore the tiny gap between them, and the sensation of his arm brushing against hers. When he had made that disgusting joke, she had lost control of her mental faculties; she had imagined, for one moment, what it would be like to be with Chuck Bass. With someone like Chuck, she would not feel the need to seem ladylike. She would not be embarrassed. Last week, when she and Nate had been making out on her bed, his hands scarcely wandering, used to her protestations when he tried to take things too far, she had been filled with the urge to whisper something into his ear. She had wanted to say something outrageous – something that could only be said in a breathy voice, or whispered in the ear of a lover. Something using those four letter words that Blair found it difficult to say at the best of times.

She had lost her nerve. She had been filled with the idea that Nate might laugh at her. And she had been scared that Nate's image of her as the ingénue would be shattered, and that her attempt to play the bombshell instead would be laughable. But with Chuck, there was nothing too sordid, no thought too wicked. And the idea thrilled her.

But now she was achingly aware of him. Aware that in her wildest dreams, she would never lean across and put her hand on his leg, whisper something in his ear. She was Blair Waldorf. And there were some things that she would never say. Especially not to Chuck Bass.

"It's that Georgina – she's such a bad influence on Serena."

"Georgina certainly knows how to let loose," Chuck said knowingly.

Blair felt a wave of something – it was impossible to articulate what the feeling was. "Well it helps to be a massive whore. Didn't she lose her virginity to you at thirteen?"

"Something like that."

She was in the mood at get a rise out of him. "I'm surprised you remember."

Chuck leaned in slightly, and for a heat-filled moment Blair had been convinced that he was about to kiss her. Or whisper one of the forbidden words into her ear. With a jolt, Blair realized that they had begun rotating again. Chuck spoke in a near-whisper, next to her ear. "You never forget your first time."

It was in moments like this that Blair remembered that Nate confided most things in Chuck. The fact that he was aware of her relative inexperience embarrassed her and made her sullen. "That's why some of us want to make it special."

He seemed amused. "And what, exactly, would make it special?"

Blair was at a loss, but was determined to hide that fact from Chuck. "Not worrying about catching an STD afterwards would be a good place to start."

"Lofty ambitions, Waldorf. Masturbation doesn't usually cause STDs, though – and seeing Nate's been doing little else for four years, I don't think you have to worry."

She blushed. "You wouldn't understand what making it special is all about."

"Actually, I think I have some idea." When he spoke, he maintained a respectable distance, but Blair founder herself unconsciously shifting away from him, as if he were closing the gap between them. "There's nothing quite like being a first."

"What do you mean?"

His voice lowered, and between the gentle tone of it and the rush of air as they sat once more stationary at the top of the wheel, Blair felt slightly giddy. "It's the look on her face when you enter her – the surprise of it. There's nothing you could do to make that any less than special."

A silence fell between them.

Neither could know that behind the other's eyes was a scene being enacted that was identical to the others. They just regarded each other, until the old machine groaned to life once more, and they finally reached the ground again. Because the moment they did, Chuck's imperceptible victory disappeared as Blair walked into Nate's reluctant embrace.

* * *

"Just breathe man," Dan advised as Chuck and he weaved through the crowd.

"Has high school always been this claustrophobic?"

"Yes," Dan said simply. "It's the feeling of people squeezing out your individuality."

"Maybe they should squeeze you a little harder until you stop speaking like a Berkeley undergrad," Chuck said darkly.

It was perhaps a sign of their shifting relationship that Dan laughed at his quip. In spite of himself, Chuck felt a smile teasing his lips.

"And maybe if they squeeze you a little harder you'll stop dressing like a member of Village People," Dan commented wryly, lifting Chuck's lilac scarf slightly.

"A homophobic fashion comment – the last refuge of the style-less Brooklyn boy. Or shall we call you LonelyBoy?"

Dan rolled his eyes, waving at Jenny where she sat in the courtyard with Eric Van Der Woodsen. Chuck idly waved at Eric in an innate mirroring of Dan's sibling acknowledgement.

"At least Gossip Girl doesn't torture the English language in an attempt to find fish puns when she writes posts about me," Dan commented.

"Touché," Chuck conceded, searching for Blair in the crowd.

Dan thought that Chuck seemed nervous. There was something frantic about the way his eyes searched the crowd, as if he were certain that at any moment something he was dreading would come out from around the corner. But despite his darting eyes, some of the fluid grace of Chuck's movements had returned: for so long he had been walking as if he were in a stiff sort of pain. It had been as if his joints had seized up. He seemed different today, as if his senses were alert again. And his cheeks were pink. Dan suspected that the real reason for Chuck's surprising return to school was Blair Waldorf than a sudden interest in his college prospects.

"I haven't seen her," Dan said hesitantly.

Chuck whipped around to glare at him. "Who says I'm looking for Blair?"

"Who said anything about Blair?" Dan asked smugly.

"Brilliant deduction Watson. No why don't you run off and play a game of hide and go fuck yourself," Chuck murmured.

"Because we both have History. Come on, man. You can't just wander around the courtyard for hours like a reject from Zefirelli's _Romeo and Juliet_."

"Weren't they all fifteen years old in that movie?"

"Even more reason," Dan said, jostling him through the door of the classroom. "Come on – you might learn something."

With a forlorn look at the thinning crowd, Chuck decided that there was nothing to be lost by a quick detour.

He felt like a stranger in that room, as his classmates traded jokes and stories. He felt older than them, sadder, perhaps, than his boisterous cohort. A few members of the class tried to engage Chuck in conversation, but he just stared at them blankly. As their classmates made the tacit decision to just ignore Chuck, Dan threw him surreptitious glances. There was something fierce about Chuck's face that prevented those around him from looking at him directly in the eye.

Perhaps it was because of his long absence from school, but Chuck had never realized quite how majestic the room in which they had History class was. On the elevated stage, a man who barely seemed to focus his eyes on the class before him gestured erratically at the chalk board that most other teachers ignored in preference for the high-tech projector screen. Chuck noticed with distaste that the man was wearing tan corduroy pants. Chuck found with irritation that he could not quite recollect the man's name – Dr Dwight? Dr Blight? Something along those lines. St Jude's had never lacked the notable professor, poached from some of the best academic institutions in the country.

Chuck had never spared education much thought – preferring those more immediate passions that could come to you in the course of the day, above those endeavours that would take years to attain. Merely to placate his father, Chuck had applied to Yale, Princeton, Harvard – all of the schools that had seemed appropriate for a Bass. Since his father's death, he hadn't spared college a lot of thought. He vaguely remembered those minions of his father at that disastrous business meeting commenting on his lack of education.

For his part, Chuck had never doubted his mind – had never thought of himself as uneducated. But sitting in this class, watching this man with a whisp of grey hair, Chuck found himself strangely moved by the hours, years, that this man must have spent in the world of thought. As many hours, perhaps, as Chuck had spent in the throes of the physical world. And so he listened – truly listened – as he never had before in a class like this, especially one only a month or two shy of graduation.

It was Dr Dwight, Chuck remembered [1].

"If you will all be quiet, we will begin."

It took a while for the chatter to calm down. Most seniors took for granted that free pass that was given to the graduating class. The man standing before them leaned on the podium – a pose he would maintain only for a few minutes before being taken away with the passion of his lecture, and gesturing enthusiastically.

"If you can summon in your minds a degree of stillness, we will continue our journey through the American Civil War. As I mentioned last class, this course will not be concerned only with the dates that you all memorised so conscientiously during your SAT preparation. Rather, we will talk about something more essential than that. The one thing that I want to leave in folded in your breast pockets before we send you off to Harvard and Yale.

"What I want to talk to you about today is the Reconstruction. That brief, shining moment as Dubois once called it – of 11 years – one of the most vexing, topsy-turvy, embittered periods of American history. An era that historians still fight over. It is there we will try to understand the consequences of the Civil War. For if we first tear each other apart and then must come back to each other and forge ourselves once more from the clay – how are we to set aside those differences that tore us apart before?"

_If we first tear each other apart_. Chuck experienced a strange double vision at the man's words. On the one hand, he could smell the destruction of war that had occurred in America – the literal images that were associated with this time in history. On the other hand, he thought of the way he had himself torn his world to pieces after his father's death. To crash destruction into himself. To watch his world go down in flames. And then to rebuild himself, in the hope that it was possible to be redeemed.

How could his classmates doodle so absently while this man spoke to them? Or was it Chuck who was struck too hard by these words? He leaned forward, balling his hands in his lap and listened with intense focus.

"At the end of the day, it is about the consequences as well as the course of this event. I will start with a very famous passage from Martin Luther King's famous _I have a dream_ speech, around a century after the end of the Civil War. It is not usually the passage that is quoted – and now it is quoted in commercials or on radio spots, as background. King's voice: as if it is some kind of American chorus. We often just skip right over the first few paragraphs of the speech. The Promisory Note in the Bank of Justice. I will hand out a copy of this section of the speech."

Chuck read the words written before him:

_In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness._

Dr Dwight read aloud from the central passage. And in the dim room, with tiny particles of dust haloing his head, Chuck fancied that he seemed an angel of learning. His voice was full of authority, which fell on the deaf ears of Chuck's classmates – with the exception perhaps of Dan Humphrey. Chuck noticed for the first time that Nate was absent, but he couldn't give it much thought before the man was speaking again.

"I would be thrilled if you walked out of this course and were able to explain to somebody why King made this promissory note the central metaphor of his speech, and explain why it hadn't been cashed by 1963."

Chuck found suddenly that he had no idea what he would say to someone who asked him about this time in history. He realized that even though he had learnt a lot about people in the last six years of high school, he had been neglecting the other volumes he could have come across in this time. For he first time, he felt ignorant. And he hated the feeling.

"I would like to take a moment to perform a ritual I like to do before we ship you college campuses across the country. We, all of us, live in a world where we take books for granted. We throw books on the floor, we throw books at people - " Chuck barked with laughter at this, causing half the class to look at him amazedly. Was Chuck Bass seriously listening to this? Were the rest of them missing something important? Most people in the room sat up slightly and finally tuned in to Dwight's words. " – we load them in and out of our backpacks – we lose them, we write all over them. It is only a few generations ago when there weren't any bookstores to go to. Books are precious things. You could have all the riches of Midas, and yet if there were no books in your palace, I would name it bankrupt. Novels, monographs – think of a book for a moment. Any book. One of your favourite books: it is like a new born child."

There was only one book that Chuck could think of that was precious enough to sit well with what his teacher was saying. That book that Blair had given him, on the night that he had found her battered (idly, Chuck remembered that he still had some unfinished business to attend to with Aaron Rose). _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_. How profoundly he had loved that book when he was young and not distracted by women and parties and the world of his father: that cruel world of business that lacked any form of loveliness. Blair knew books – Blair loved books, really. Although she would never admit it. She lived in two worlds – the world of Old Hollywood, the world of fiction – and then the exhausting world of Blair Waldorf. Chuck felt a pressure on his heart.

I wish I could make her real life as beautiful as those books.

And yet Chuck knew that it had been him who had poisoned her daily life – not him alone, but he perhaps more than most.

"There is a design, construction – at least intellectually – perhaps more in a book than in most babies. Books have a cover, beginnings, middles, end. They are somebody's dream, they are somebody's creation. They never satisfy, just like people. In some ways they are the greatest things we have. And sometimes it is nice to remember that in the places we most take them for granted."

The lecture continued for an hour, and never once did Chuck look longingly out of the window, hoping that he may find time to sneak out for a joint. And when the lecture ended, Chuck hovered back, wanting to talk to the man he had never spared much thought. When the room was empty (Dan Humphrey lingering, trying to catch Chuck's eye), Chuck stood awkwardly before the man, still elevated above him.

"Chuck Bass – I must say it is a surprise to see you here. I thought you couldn't wait to be rid of us all."

Chuck offered a half smile. "I grew nostalgic."

"I'm glad. I always thought there was more going on in there than your GPA manifested. I was disappointed when you decided to follow your father into that wretched world of business. For some reason I thought you'd be more of a boon to the thinking world."

It was possibly the first time that a teacher had shown any interest in him, had given an indication (even this late in his schooling) that they felt that he was destined for more than being a sleazy business hack. It was also pleasant not to hear that false note of sympathy over his Bart's death. Most of the people in the city had hated him almost as much as they feared him. Few were sorry to see him go. Chuck appreciated that Bart's entire modus operandi would have insulted the sensibilities of this learned man.

"So what can I do for you?"

This was the part that Chuck had been dreading. He had no idea how to put into words those feelings he'd experienced during the lecture.

"I enjoyed your lecture," he said hesitantly.

"Thank you. Just out of interest, what did you like about it?" The man seemed inordinately fascinated with him. He seemed wryly amused by Chuck's discomfort. It was rare that Chuck seemed to be anything but self-possessed.

"It made me think that…I mean…It made me realize that I don't know anything."

The small man laughed, climbing down from the podium so that he was on Chuck's level. "I imagine you know something, my boy. You've probably had more experiences than I'd had when I was a decade older than you."

Chuck frowned. "It's not that. I just…it made me think that I'd like to know more. I'd like to have more books, and know more books, and have more in my life that isn't, you know." He searched for the word.

"Distasteful?"

Chuck had never thought of it like that. "Yes, exactly. So I suppose I just wanted to know where you thought I should start."

The man was definitely surprised. "You want to learn about history?"

"I don't know," Chuck shrugged. "I just want to know things that have no point."

The man laughed and clipped him on the shoulder. "No offence taken, of course. You know you remind me of that Larkin poem, 'Church Going'."

Chuck rolled his eyes, "let's assume that I have no idea what you're talking about."

The man's eyes sparkled. He really did seem pleased by Chuck's interest. "It is a poem written by Philip Larkin, and in the final stanza, the poem speaks of a man with a compulsion to become wise: _a hunger in himself to be more serious / And gravitating with it to this ground, /Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in, / If only that so many dead lie round_."

"That's really cheerful, thanks," Chuck muttered.

"Well, my boy. You are embarking upon a quest for learning – there's nothing cheerful about that. But returning to your original request. If you want to start at the beginning, I prescribe you the first history book of the Western world: Herodotus' _The Histories_. Let's see how you go with that and we will see what else we can give you."

"Thanks," Chuck said sincerely.

The man just laughed as he walked away, whistling.

Chuck had not forgotten about his desire to find Blair, but surely a quick visit to the library – possibly his first in all his years of high school – would not be too much of a diversion.

* * *

Of all the rooms in the school, it was the library that Blair loved most.

There was something seductive about the musty smell of old books – those ideas that have rarely seen breath, that need so forcefully to strike the nose when they are finally released. And so Blair found herself surrounded by those old manuscripts that most students at the school never opened. She fancied that the smell was in fact the ideas rushing out of the pages and spiralling upwards to the vaulted ceiling. Whenever Blair needed a respite from her own exhausting identity, she sought it out in this library, with its wood panelling and long, lamp-lit tables.

Today, more than any other day, she needed to be alone here with the books – far away from herself and all others.

Alone, that is – until her eyes fell on the last person she expected to see in the library. There, standing in the history section, was Chuck Bass, his eyes focussed intensely on the brown pages of what she would have sworn was Herodotus' _The Histories_. His eyebrows were pulled into that straight line that he wore when he was concentrating and his shoulders were hunched. He seemed to be in deep concentration. He was tucked away in one of the furthest corners of the library; the only reason she could see him was because she had chosen this barren and far away section for its solitude. They could have been alone in a vast expanse. And yet he had not noticed her.

Perhaps it was the smell of the books, but Blair was exceptionally moved by the sight of Chuck in such an unlikely situation. It was as if she was looking forward in time, to a time when Chuck would be a refined, older man, surrounded in books. And her imagination, daring to raise her hopes, envisaged an older version of herself lying on a sofa with him, her head in his lap, each with a book in hand. She quickly shook the image from her head; the much more likely scenario with Chuck was that he would be in a hot-tub surrounded by Playboy bunnies at that advanced age. Hadn't he always joked that he would like to die with a scotch and woman in hand?

Nonetheless, the image was captivating, and Blair found herself longing to walk to him in those dark stacks. But an even larger part of her longed to run away from him – to escape the aching in her chest and the butterflies in her stomach and run from him until he simply grew bored of chasing her. She sat motionless, torn between the two longings.

And as if perceiving her eyes on him, he turned to look at her.

She had no choice but to walk to him. She left her books where they were.

"What are you doing here, Chuck?"

He smiled sheepishly, holding up the book as if that answered her question. "I decided to start from the beginning," he said simply.

"That's not what I meant."

Sensing the shifting direction of the conversation, Chuck gently placed the book on the shelf – with a hint of reverence – and frowned at her. "How about you answer _my _question first? Why the hell did you disappear in the middle of the night?"

Even though his voice was lowered to a whisper, she could sense the harshness in his inflection. She crossed her arms. "I'm sorry – I forgot that was your trick."

Chuck had just read those first lines of Herodotus' book, when he felt someone watching him. Already the words struck a chord with him: _This is the Showing forth of the Inquiry of Herodotus of Halicarnassos, to the end that neither the deeds of men may be forgotten by lapse of time, nor the works great and marvelous, which have been produced some by Hellenes and some by Barbarians, may lose their renown; and especially that the causes may be remembered for which these waged war with one another._

History was about consequences, Dwight had said. And in the present between him and Blair, it seemed that he was destined to live by history's consequences. He had hurt her – of that he was certain. But how long would he be forced to pay for those harms? Was there a time when they would finally be equal? And did that mean that for the foreseeable future, their relationship would consist of her retribution? Surely, there had to be a way to skip the extraction of revenge. Surely there had to be a way for them to move forward. Surely there were good consequences as well as bad?

Chuck was suddenly very aware of himself: of his crossed arms, his warlike stance, mirroring her own. Their history wasn't entirely fighting. There was passion there too. And hadn't there been moments when just changing his physical stance had changed the direction of the conversation? There were consequences of those actions as well. One thing he knew was that Blair could not resist him physically – not just when it came to sex, but also when he moved his body to take her to him, when he reached out to touch her in any way. The consequence of action, then, when words fail.

He watched her as he uncrossed his arms and stood up straight. He felt suddenly as if he could perform those great feats that Herodotus spoke of. As he adjusted his body, it seemed that without even realizing it, Blair uncrossed her arms and

"I went to class today," he said.

"Congratulations, Bass," she said sarcastically, but he wasn't convinced of her venom. Her eyes were softening, and she nervously tucked a curl behind her ear, still so self-conscious about those bruises of hers. He took a step closer to her, encouraged by her physical responsiveness.

"I came here to find you," he added, simply.

Her hand nervously reached out for the shelf, as if reassuring herself that there were solid objects around her. "I figured. Why did you do that?"

With another tentative step into enemy terrain, Chuck closed the final gap between them, so that his body was all but touching hers, reassuring himself that the heat still existed between them. Reassuring himself that she hadn't fled from him because that fire was gone. Her eyes flickered to his lips, uncertainty giving way to desire as he stared fixedly at her face.

"Because you left."

The unspoken question – _why?_ – Chuck set aside for the moment. But Blair was not going to be distracted so easily, even as his arms came to rest on either side of her – still not touching her skin, but creating a cocoon of warmth around her, her back against the book shelf.

"I know," she whispered. "But why did you come to find me?"

There seemed no point asking at this point; he was never going to say it, she was coming to realize. But here, in his warmth, it seemed such a little thing. It was only when there was space between them that her thoughts got in the way. Now there was barely enough space for a piece of paper between them. There was barely a breath of air between them. And Blair felt her defenses crumbling.

"Because I wanted to thank you for last night," he all but purred. "And to give you this."

With no more force than a butterfly's wing, Chuck brushed her lips with his. Blair felt a wave of desire wash over her. There was a unique alchemy between them – it was undeniable. She threw her arms around him, all but throwing her legs around him as well. All of Chuck's restraint evaporated as he pushed her against the bookshelf. Always needing to feel closer – closer – closer to her.

Chuck lifted her onto one of those shelves, so that he could press more of her body against his. No thought, then, of the fact they were in a public place and no thought of discovery. Even no thought of Herodotus. There was nothing but a pressing need for her right now. Summoning super-human restraint, Chuck pulled back slightly.

"Maybe we should go to my limo," he suggested breathlessly – incredibly aroused by those two patches of pink on her flustered cheeks.

Shaking her head, leaning once more to his lips, she whispered possibly the sexiest words that he had heard from her. "No. Take me – now. Here."

And so he did. And from that day on, Chuck really liked libraries.

* * *

When the first day of the long-awaited Archibald trial drew to a close, the media thronged on the steps to the Circuit Court of New York. Nate felt dizzy. Even with his hand clasping Vanessa's with a little more force than usual, he felt that at any moment he may simply step into the atmosphere. With each camera flash, another scene returned to him. The sight of his father in the dock. The sight of the Prosecutor laying out the case against him. The growing realization that this would not end well, that this would be a gruesome display for all those who hated the Archibalds. And the media would sip their coffees and watch the gladiatorial arena.

His mother was being escorted to the car by his father's attorney – a top silk, but probably not enough to help the Captain escape the impending punishment.

Even though she assured him that she did not blame him, he knew that she would never forgive him for causing this whole mess. There was no longer a look of fond indulgence in her eyes. Every day there was a sense of disappointment teasing its edges. Nate had never thought of his mother as a passionate woman, but there was absolutely no denying the fact that she was madly in love with the Captain – immoderately in love with him. In love to the point of blind worship. And so this spectacle wounded her beyond the strictures of her social status; it hurt her on an intensely personal level. It was the love of her life being ravaged by the pack, and there was no stopping it – all of her money and power and there was simply no stopping it – and the fact that it was caused by her beloved son. That was almost intolerable to Anne Archibald.

And so Nate went to bed each night grappling with himself, conflicted. Vanessa told him that she was proud of him, and he had come to rely on her as a moral compass, always certain – always unflinchingly honest. And when they fell asleep together, with less giggling these days, more silence falling as Nate retreated into his head, Nate found himself trying to see as Vanessa saw. His father had perpetrated so many horrible acts, and he had been right to help him face them. But then, when Vanessa's even breathing filled the room, Nate found it impossible not to look at himself through his mother's eyes. She was profoundly disappointed in him. And that was one thing that Nate could not bear.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Vanessa asked him quietly after they ducked away from the car and the crowds.

Nate shrugged, avoiding her eyes. There was a masochistic comfort in his mother's view of him; there was nothing in his mother's eyes that differed from the way Nate felt about his own part in his father's undoing. Although the feel of Vanessa's hand clasped in his was comforting, he knew that he would never be able to wallow effectively with her eyes on him, with her comforting words.

"Actually, I think I'll just go home."

Vanessa had no idea what to make of him today; there was no protocol for this sort of thing. None of her previous relationships had adequately prepared her for the proper behavior required when her boyfriend's father was impounded before a Grand Jury. She didn't like his new-found quietness. She didn't like those places in his head that he retreated to when he tried to avoid her questions. But Dan was right; he kept telling her to take her cues form Nate, that there was no road map for this sort of situation. And so she silenced that nagging voice that told her that it was wrong to leave him to his own devices, to allow him to disappear into his head. And she gave him space.

"Okay," she said quietly. "Call me later?"

But his eyes were already distant. "Yeah. Probably."

As Nate walked away from Vanessa, leaving her next to the great stone edifice that would bring down the full force of law upon his father's shoulders, he felt his phone vibrate. Pulling it from his trouser pocket, Nate read the Gossip Girl blast impassively. So, Blair and Chuck were on again – and getting it on in the library. Typical Chuck, Nate thought wryly.

With his best friend in mind, Nate pondered what to do with the afternoon. What to do now that he felt that he felt he was no longer the old Nate Archibald: the Nate that would punch a boy from his class for insulting his family. His thoughts wandered back to his best friend. He had always tacitly envied the life that Chuck had forged for himself living under Bart's roof. The anarchy of having no expectations placed upon you, the freedom of being at fault – indefinitely. It had been that way with Serena as well. Nate had always loved the freedom of both Serena and Chuck – the freedom of being anyone who was not Nate Archibald.

That was what had attracted him to Vanessa in the beginning – the sense that she was independent, that she was free to do whatever it was that pleased her. And yet, she reigned herself in more than any of them. She held herself to a strict moral code, which challenged each of their friends to live up to her standards. People became better around her. And that was what Nate loved about her.

But today Nate wanted more than anything to free of his own life. So, he decided that just for today, he would be Chuck.

"I need a drink," he said experimentally.

There was no one in the empty street to hear him, and really there was no Nate Archibald. But he liked the way the sentence sounded. So, shrugging and lifting his old identity from his shoulders like an old cardigan, he entered the nearest bar.

* * *

To say that Blair was mortified would have been putting it too mildly.

It was one thing to have the gory details of her sex life posted on Gossip Girl, but it was quite another to be discovered in the throes of passion by the sixty year old woman who worked in the library – and who was probably a virgin.

Perhaps describing it as the throes of passion was putting too fine a point on it. In truth, they had just finished their extra-curricular library activities, with Chuck commenting wryly that he would have to buy a new shirt after she ripped the buttons off this one. She had been struggling to do up her blouse when the woman turned the corner and dropped her books onto the wooden floor, a horrified look on her face.

"Think of it this way," Chuck had whispered as they were escorted to the Headmistress's office, "a minute earlier and she really would have gotten an eyeful."

Blair had just glared at him furiously.

Really, they had been lucky – not only because they had not been interrupted per se, but also because in their desperation to get as close to each other as humanly possible, they had not had the time to take off their clothes. Blair had been trying to tug Chuck's shirt out form his trousers in order to run her hands across his bare back when she accidentally ripped the buttons off. By his standards, he had been positively modest about the way he kissed her chest – merely opening the blouse. They had been in a frenzy, and Blair could not have guaranteed that she would have noticed if Headmistress Queller herself had discovered them while giving a tour of the library to her priest.

But, it had been fairly obvious what the librarian had just missed, and so the woman sternly led them to the Headmistress's office, Blair's face red and Chuck smirking (even having the audacity to ask her to check out his copy of Herodotus for him on the way). Truly, the woman seemed to be affecting her stern visage. Blair suspected that the woman was actually a bit awed by their audacity.

Blair had other words for their actions – such as stupid, ill-advised, embarrassing and exhibitionist. And, if she were truly honest with herself, fairly amazing. But she did her best to hide that opinion from Chuck, who was currently sitting in one of the Headmistress's red leather chairs, reading Herodotus and ignoring the dire situation entirely. They were alone for the moment.

"I can't believe you're being so calm about this," Blair spat.

Chuck looked up, taking a few seconds to register after being so lost in the book. "What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is that the Headmistress is now going to think that I'm a scarlet woman!"

He offered her a bemused smile, letting the book fall onto his chest, which was partly exposed where Blair had denuded it of its buttons. He noticed that her eyes fell on his exposed skin. She looked almost hungrily at the flesh of his chest – and his bemused smile quickly turned to a smirk. "Well, if you're going to get the letter A embroidered on your clothes [2], we might as well make it for keeps. What do I have to do to get you to have sex with me on Queller's desk?"

Blair shook her head to clear it of the lustful thoughts that had filled it at the sight of his exposed chest. "You're disgusting."

"Really Waldorf," he said patiently. "Eventually you just get used to being called disgusting. It's like getting coated in Teflon – all the insults just slide right off."

"I can think of a few other things to call you if you're sick of disgusting," Blair muttered darkly.

"I think I can remember a few of the things you called me a few minutes ago when you were whispering wicked things into my ear."

Blair couldn't help but smile slightly. But before she could answer, the Headmistress stormed into the room, and Blair leapt to her feet.

"Oh sit down Miss Waldorf. I think any semblance of dignified conduct was left in the History stacks of our library about ten minutes ago."

"Ten minutes?" Chuck scoffed. "Surely you're underestimating me."

"I will get to you in a minute," Queller said darkly. "As for you Miss Waldorf, I hope that you appreciate the fact that I don't want to besmirch your record with something so sordid – especially only weeks before college offers are announced - "

"_Thank _you, Headmistress," Blair said in a rush of relief.

Chuck frowned slightly. He hadn't thought of that. He would never have been able to forgive himself if she had been barred from Yale because of him. Not that it would be an issue after Blair killed him in his sleep.

"But I have contacted both of your parents," Queller said sternly. "And having spoken to your mother, I think it is fairly safe to say that you will be adequately punished."

All colour drained from Blair's face. Chuck tried to imagine Eleanor Waldorf's reaction to the news that he had nailed her daughter in a public place – at school. He hoped that Cyrus was strong enough to physically restrain the woman. But he couldn't dwell on these threatening images because the Headmistress was rounding in on him.

"Don't think that I don't know who the ringleader of this little stunt was," she said sternly. Chuck cast a sidelong glance at Blair, remembering her breathy order, _take me – now_. But, he knew that she was busy trying to calculate how long it would take for her mother to forgive her. Possibly by the time she was thirty-five years old.

"What's my punishment? Suspension?"

The Headmistress may have had very little eye for nuance, and even less of an understanding of her students, but one thing she knew was punishment. When she spoke, she was full of triumph. "Oh no Mr. Bass. I know that suspension would be a gift for someone like you. You are about to find yourself very much involved in school activities."

"As a library monitor, perhaps," Chuck whispered, throwing a furious Blair another lascivious look.

The Headmistress shook her head. "It seems that Dr. Dwight has volunteered to preside over your detention. I am certain he has some fairly large punishments for you. It will be two weeks, in his office. And if you default on any one of those afternoons, even in light of your independent study allowance, I will withhold your graduate diploma." She paused to take a breath, looking at the teenagers that sat before her. "I mean _really_. What was it about the library was so irresistibly arousing?"

"Well I don't know about Ms. Waldorf, but I just get turned on by having the eyes of history upon - "

"_Chuck_," Blair hissed. "We're leaving. Thank you Headmistress Queller, I swear to god that will never happen again."

"Never?" Chuck said, crestfallen.

"Never again on school property," Blair muttered.

Headmistress Queller rolled her eyes. "Just get out of my sight, both of you. And Mr. Bass, don't forget detention at four. And Miss Waldorf - " the Headmistress grimly remembered the hysterical fit that Eleanor had fallen into at the story of Chuck _Bass_ and her daughter making spectacles of themselves in the library. For an instant she felt sorry for the girl. "God speed," she said with a half-smile.

* * *

Vanessa didn't want to be alone tonight, so she went to the only room she knew would always be open to her.

Dan was surrounded by books – alphabetising and generally demonstrating that anally retentive streak that she found endearing, but most of society found disturbing. She climbed through the window form the fire escape, not so much because she felt that sense of entitlement as a family member (that was Dan's story) but more because she liked feeling that she was someone in his life who didn't need an excuse to just let herself in. Just entering the inner sanctum of his room, full of ideas and brimming with books, reminded her that she was in a safe place, where any idea could be taken to its greatest extent.

During those heady days when she and Dan stood on the brink of friendship and that unspeakable place where friendship becomes something more, they had sat in this room talking about anything – everything, really. It was sometimes with a sense of nostalgia that Vanessa remembered those days, when she was wilder, somehow, before the stability of school and Nate had placed her in a corner of her own design. She remembered imagining herself on distant shores, with no one but Dan at her side, how desperately she wanted him, how he was the only person she could imagine being tethered to. And together they would dive off waterfalls, listen to new music – dancing together, although they had never danced together before. An undiscovered area for them, and even now, years later, she felt that pull of a space of intimacy that they had never yet discovered.

But these things she pushed aside as Dan shook his head ruefully.

"You know for a smart girl you really do have a steep learning curve," he commented wryly as she climbed through his window.

"Don't tell me, don't tell me – knock on the door, I got it."

"Easy, easy words."

She wagged her eyebrows at him. "For an easy, easy girl."

"Oh thank you for that," he said, miming blinding himself with his pencil. But his eyes were welcoming and he gestured to the ground next to him.

"Ah," she said wisely. "We are doing the inaugural Humphrey re-arrange of the books. And I see we have been looking at _Twilight_ recently? That'll look nice next to your collected Henry Miller…"

Dan grabbed the offending volume back, grimacing. "I'm only reading it under the philosophy of "know thine enemy". Otherwise I'd just use it to light fires and line my bird cage."

"Overlooking the fact you have no bird," Vanessa muttered, cocking her head to the side. "Can you believe the advance she got for this tripe?"

Dan nodded fervently. "I read an interview with her publisher, and she said that when she was reading it she knew that she was reading a best-seller. Shouldn't you – you know – kill yourself when you realize that this is the standard of the usual reader?"

Vanessa's heart wasn't in their usual bitchy literary criticism, so she merely shrugged. It was impossible to hide anything from Dan; he knew immediately that something was wrong. But in typical Dan form, he didn't ask directly; he liked to tease around the edges of a problem, enjoying the subtlety of the side issue.

"So did you learn anything about the accuracy of _Twelve Angry Men_, today?"

She rolled her eyes, absently passing another volume to him, automatically adopting his Dan-Dewy-Decimal System. "Let's not talk about the trial."

Dan shrugged, and for some reason Vanessa felt a flash of annoyance at his acquiescence. During that tumultuous time, when their relationship had been changing and the only forum in which they could discuss it was online – through email, in text message – she had cursed his lack of understanding. There was no one that knew him better, and yet she felt that he was constantly missing her signals. He had never known when to drop the issue and when to press her. And today, when she was aching to tell him about her day, he chose to accept her instructions. Whereas, when it came to the knocking on the door issue, he was constantly reprimanding her. Gazing at his profile, Vanessa mused about those feelings they had never had a chance to explore.

"So what is new in the land of the Bright Young Things? Tales of bitchery and intrigue, I hope?"

Dan grimaced. "When, _when_, did my life start adopting the dialogue of a bad Mills and Boon novel?"

Vanessa mimed a swoon, placing her hand over her heart. The effect was lost by the bracelet that Nate had brought her getting caught on the poncho she was wearing. While she focussed on her jewellery entanglement, Dan glanced at his cell phone.

"Oh. Oh. No. No, no, no, no, no."

"What?" she asked with concern, her hand still grafted to her poncho, which she now threw on her lap.

"This just in," Dan said sarcastically. "Blair and Chuck discovered getting freaky in the library."

In spite of herself, Vanessa's heart rose slightly. She was positively romanced by the notion of Blair and Chuck. "Getting freaky? Welcome to 1997, Dan."

"I'm just exploring my roots. We Humphrey clan didn't just emigrate from Wales – we used to be members of the Notorious B.I.G. family."

"Yeah. Because you're so in da hood. How many delis are there within walking distance again? What else did the Gossip thingy say?"

Dan shrugged. "You know if you enjoy delving into the salacious gossip of other people's lives, maybe you should just subscribe to the site. Actually, seeing you're on it a lot of time maybe you should hire a press secretary to compile clippings of any blasts using the phrase 'Hip V and her swoon-worthy bf'. Then I wouldn't have to watch Gossip Girl more than Jenny to keep track of the gossip for you."

"But I'm morally opposed! So I have to rely on you, my sell-out best friend, to report everything to me."

"Fine," Dan said grudgingly. "All it says was that they were marched to the Headmistress's office, with Chuck all but naked. And _that_ is an image I really needed. And then there are about fourteen pages of replies to the 'Who went all Chris Brown on Queen B?', which just speculates about the person who beat Blair around."

"Oh _that's_ tasteful," Vanessa said, rolling her eyes.

"Domestic violence humour – an all new low. It does have more than a few posts from people who wish they had gotten to her first."

"I don't find that particularly hard to believe."

Dan raised his eyebrows. "So the real Vanessa is still in there somewhere."

"The real Vanessa?"

"The one who isn't best friends with Chuck – and who hangs out with Blair without any filming opportunities."

Vanessa threw her head back onto the bed they were leaning against. "I know, I know. What's happened to my life? The fact of the matter is that there's just something about them – mainly Chuck, but I have to say that Blair's growing on me as well. I can't help it – I'm fascinated. They remind me of those old 1930s films."

Dan nodded guiltily. "The 1930s novels for me. Those great aqua penguins. _Vile Bodies_, the _Beautiful and the Damned_."

"So you get it. As much as I hate the world – hate what they do to people…well there really is something amazing about the world they live in."

"Those crazy Upper East Siders. They suck you in, don't they? Who would have thought, a few years ago, that you would be dating the prince of St Jude's - "

"And that _you_ would be dating Serena Van Der Woodsen."

"Things change," Dan said thoughtfully.

Something about that made Vanessa's head whip around to look at him. Self-consciously, he adjusted his Clash t-shirt and fiddled with the pages of _Dead Souls_.

"What?" Dan smiled, balking at her intense glare.

"I was just thinking about college."

"Any particular aspect? The architecture of NYU, perhaps?"

She smiled the secret smile she had, which always seemed to tell him that he knew her not at all. "I was wondering whether we'll still be the friends we are now a year form now."

This wasn't book-sorting conversation, so Dan set his volume aside and faced her, sitting cross-legged on his floor. "I really hope so, V."

She smiled crookedly. "So do I. But realistically, we will grow apart. It's natural I guess. And I want you to just suck the marrow off this experience – you at Yale - "

"Don't jinx me," Dan muttered.

"Me at NYU. It's important to experience new things. Make new friends."

Dan smiled patiently. Vanessa was like this sometimes. She narrativised their lives. She told the story as if it were a voice over of one of her documentaries. Sometimes he wished that she would rediscover that impulsive creature, constantly changing – that creature she had been before the harsh reality of life in New York had changed her into someone less willing to compromise. He loved her, this strange woman, wearing shoes of different colours. And secretly, in that deep unspoken place, where he kept his dreams of being a rock star, he thought that Nate would never understand her the way he did. Overcome with seriousness, Dan grabbed her hand.

"No. You will always be my best friend, V. Forever."

Vanessa couldn't hide the true smile that broke across her face. Sometimes, just sometimes, he knew the perfect thing to say. And those moments would be etched into her memory with a little more accuracy than seemed really appropriate for a casual conversation with an old friend. They were both suddenly aware of their joined hands and felt awkward. Vanessa dropped his hand and scrounged about in her brain for a new topic of conversation.

"Do I smell chilli?"

"Oh you're in for a treat. Or some severe indigestion. We keep you guessing, we Humphries."

"That you do," Vanessa smiled, passing him another book. "That's under S. For self-aggrandizing wank."

"I'll have you know that is Docterow – a great influence on me. And actually, I'd probably file "self-aggrandizing wank" under W. If you're going to mock the system, can you at least understand it first?"

She was in the mood to be kind to him, filled with nostalgia. "Okay, Dan."

* * *

"So wait," Serena asked again, lying on Blair's bed with her legs straight up against the wall, regarding her upside-down best friend. "You got caught making out with Chuck in the library? What's the big deal?"

Blair blushed slightly. "Well, we weren't exactly making out…"

"Ewwwwwww! You had sex with Chuck in the library? In front of the books? What if I need a book from there?"

"Oh please, S. When was the last time you went to the library?"

Serena rolled over onto her elbows, staring at Blair's pink cheeks. "I might go one time."

"Well then just stay away from the history section," Blair muttered.

"So what was it like?"

Blair raised an eyebrow. "Amazing – he does this thing with this hands…"

"God, B. No," Serena cried, blocking her ears. "I meant getting caught – talking to Headmistress Queller."

"It was the most embarrassing thing I have ever experienced and I'm seriously thinking about biting my cyanide tooth right now."

"What did Chuck do?"

"He just sat there, making smart ass comments until Queller gave him detention."

Serena had to admit – it did sound like Chuck. She didn't pretend to understand the nature of their magnetic attraction, and she had seen more than once how that intense passion left Blair shattered and made Chuck face his darkest corners. There was something levelling about their relationship. It burnt away at both of them, captivating as a flame, but indiscriminatingly destructive.

The things that Serena loved about Dan were simple. Tiny, really. The way he would kiss her shoulder, or think to buy her coffee. Their relationship was in the smallest details. There weren't the towering heights that Chuck and Blair seemed to live in.

Looking at the miserable cast of Blair's face, Serena was starting to think that it was a blessing. The bruises on around her eye just served to accentuate the sadness that pulled down the edges of her mouth.

"B, why aren't you happy?" Serena asked suddenly.

Blair looked surprised. "I'm happy."

Serena just looked at her.

"I _am_," she said forcefully, standing up and turning to face Serena's cupboard.

"B - "

"What am I meant to be feeling Serena," she spat, turning around. "If you're such an expert."

Serena held up her hands against Blair's onslaught. "Well you could look like you're…you know…_not_ going to a funeral. You could look happy that you and Chuck are – back doing whatever it is you call this thing you guys do." Serena could have sworn that Blair was on the verge of tears. "You could _not_ look like you're about to cry – B, what's wrong."

Blair gestured helplessly. "Why should I be happy S? What's changed? You think Chuck's found a whole new way to hurt me? Well gee – I can barely wait."

"Maybe it won't be like that this time," Serena whispered, her heart breaking for her friend.

"Of course it will, S. This is how it always is with us." The tears were flowing now. "Do you remember after the wedding, when he was taking me to Europe? I just walked around waiting for him and everyone in that stupid hotel looked at me like I was pathetic. And when I tried to call him, some girl answered his phone. You think that was an accident?"

Serena shrugged – but Blair didn't seem to need her input.

"Of course it wasn't," Blair said, her eyes streaming. "It's just what Chuck does. He can't help it – he just destroys things. It's like that story about the frog and the scorpion."

"What – the scorpion kisses the frog?"

"No, Serena," Blair said furiously – wild-eyed and gesturing widely. "The scorpion stands at the side of a river that is running to fast for him to cross. So he calls on the frog to carry him across the rapids. So of course the frog says no because he knows that the scorpion will sting him and he'll drown. But the scorpion convinces him that he would not do it because then they would both drown. So it works fine until they get to the halfway point – then the scorpion stings the frog. And as the frog starts drowning he says, 'you fool – now we both drown. Why did you do that?' And the scorpion shrugged and said 'I'm a scorpion – it's my nature.'"

Serena cocked her head to the side. "So you're the frog?"

"Yes I'm the frog!" Blair shouted. "And Chuck's the scorpion. He can't help it. He stings me because it's his nature – and then we both drown."

Out of loyalty to Blair, Serena refrained from rolling her eyes at the analogy. "Maybe he's changed – I mean, he _has_ changed…he's trying to change."

"What if it's not enough?"

If Serena were honest with herself, she would have to admit that she still had her doubts about Chuck's capacity to change, but even she could see that he was trying to be better, trying to do better. But her first loyalty was to Blair.

"You know, B. Nothing says you have to say yes. You can tell him that you're not interested in him anymore. I think part of him expects you to do just that."

Blair seemed to lose all of her fury. She sat on the corner of Serena's bed, and Serena wrapped her arms around her. Blair would always be amazed at the easy intimacy that Serena managed without any discomfort. With resignation, Blair sighed. "But if I let him go I may never get him back. And if I lost Chuck because I sent him away then what right do I have over him? How could I hurt him like that – when it isn't even true? How can I hurt him if it's a choice between him and me? If I lose Chuck because he breaks me again – well, then that's just my problem."

"B, I don't know what to say."

Serena had never quite known what the phrase 'put on a brave face' meant until she saw Blair physically shift her face into a wary smile. "I'm fine S, really. I can see he's trying to change. I just have to trust him."

"Can you do that?"

She cocked her head to the side. "What choice do I have? I'm in love with him."

"I just hope he deserves it."

Serena would never understand those people who called Blair selfish. Without saying a word, she sat on the foot of her bed with this strange best friend of hers, feeling partly thankful for her normal healthy relationship with Dan, partly envious at the awesome power of Blair's relationship with Chuck. But most of all, she was plotting the worst sort of bodily injury to Chuck if he hurt Blair again this time.

* * *

Chuck found himself sitting at a bar in Brooklyn hating life – and most of all, hating his best friend, who was currently surrounded by cheap girls drinking cheaper beer.

The afternoon had started so well. Still feeling elated from his stolen time in the library with Blair, Chuck had turned up to what was the least penal detention he had ever been involved with. Dwight had let him rant about Herodotus (impressed he had already finished the book) and had then urged him to read speeches – from Ghandi to Jefferson. There was no sense of the linear to the little man – there was only great emotion and even greater deeds.

Chuck had spoken to men of vision in his life. He had spoken to men who were unparalleled successes in business; he had spoken to men who had been educated. And yet all of them lacked what this man had: a deft understanding and an unquenchable passion for knowledge for knowledge's sake. How skilfully had the man harnessed those things that Chuck cared about and the subject matter before him! One moment Dwight would have him in the trenches and the next Chuck would be recalling the first time that Blair had leant across the back seat of his limo and kissed him.

But as the afternoon had meandered away from them (what was this? Chuck Bass dreading the end of detention?) Chuck had shaken his head at the man. There had been one thing that had lingered in his mind – had been bugging him since he had first learned of his fate from the Headmistress.

"Why did you volunteer to take my detention?"

Dwight was entirely unhurried. Chuck could envisage him sitting in class at Oxford (for that was where he had read his doctoral thesis) having not done a spot of reading because his intellectual curiosity had led him off in some different direction. After a while of thinking, the man started speaking, leaning on the desk he never sat behind, preferring to sit nearer Chuck, to converse with him.

"When I was a lowly undergrad, I read the _Fall of the Roman Empire_. And it amazed me, this conception of history as great personalities. How history's course could be changed by the great men of the city-state. I thought it horribly elitist and out of date when I was studying and going through a grand phase of communism. But when I look at you Charles, look at your position in society, your immense wealth, it recalls in my mind those stories of the child who would completely destroy the world. In the ancient stories there was always guidance. And you have had none. You're half-wild in a way. And that interests me."

"I think there was a compliment in there somewhere," Chuck commented wryly.

Dwight smiled wryly, raising an eyebrow. "I have to say, my other motivation was that I disapprove of any institution that punishes a man for getting lascivious in the library. You combined my two greatest passions: books and women. Some of my finest memories of Yale were spent with young ladies in the library."

It was hard not to like a guy like that, Chuck mused.

He had left the room feeling slightly giddy – as if he had been dislocated in time so that the sights of taxis and people came as a shock. He felt suddenly uncertain about what to do now; there was only one place he really wanted to be. He wondered whether Blair would like to hear about his afternoon. It seemed like something Blair would like. She had always liked it when Nate had called her.

Sometimes, timing is everything – and other times, timing ruins everything.

Pulling out his phone, he was slightly shocked when it rang before he could dial Blair's number. It was Nate.

"Hey man," Nate slurred, "you gotta get down here."

"Down where," Chuck asked quietly.

"Just a second," Nate mumbled, before asking someone next to him where he was. It was some dive in Brooklyn that Chuck had never heard of. Wrinkling his nose and envisaging burning his outfit when he got home, Chuck sighed.

"I don't know, Nathaniel. I just got out of detention."

"That's my man," Nate crowed. "Ten minutes back at school and you get detention. Come on, Chuck. Just the guys – we never hand out just the two of us."

Chuck listened to more of the women's voices in the background. "So I suppose that Vanessa is not with you."

A pause.

"No. And don't bring Blair either. I am not in the mood for women and complications and courtrooms. Just you an me, man. What do you say?"

Chuck remembered, with an internal slap on the forehead, that today had been the first day of the Captain's trial. "Of course, man. I'll come now."

"And don't tell anyone!"

"Of course," Chuck said, rolling his eyes. "Wouldn't want to blow your cover, Clark Kent."

"What? Yeah cool. Just get down here."

And so, Chuck had climbed into his limo – repeating the address twice to an incredulous driver (_yes, Brooklyn_). They finally arrived to a pub that seemed to be channelling Alcatraz-meets-art-deco-chic. Before Chuck had the opportunity to climb out of the car into this cesspool, his phone rang again.

His heart leapt when he saw it was Blair.

"This is a surprise, Waldorf," he said, trying to keep his voice cool.

When she spoke, her voice was a similarly cool pitch. "Why? Did you think I'd be skipping the country after the fiasco this afternoon?"

"Starting a new life in Tijuana."

"France, please," Blair corrected.

"But what do they need with an exotic dancer in France?"

"You're in a whole sick fantasy right now, aren't you?" Blair's voice became lighter as the conversation continued. Chuck found to his surprise that he was enjoying their easy camaraderie.

"Well, it depends on your definition of 'sick'. I personally find the image of you trying to gain tips by exotic dancing to fund your attempts to get into the Russian ballet rather motivational."

"And let me guess who's giving the tips?"

Chuck smirked to himself. "I am a great supporter of the arts. Anything I can do to help."

There was a pause. "There is actually something you _can _help me with."

Was it Chuck's imagination or had her voice become suddenly suggestive? "Is that right?"

"Mmm-hmmm. But it is probably best if you come over to my place."

"I see. Will I be needing money for tips?"

Definitely suggestive, Chuck decided as Blair said, "actually, I can think of a few ways you can pay me without money."

Chuck was about one second from turning the limo straight around when a flurry of activity suddenly caught his eye. It was Nate being thrown onto the pavement by three burley security guards. Groaning internally, Chuck knew that he had to deal with this. "Actually, Blair – I am still at…detention….it's gone a little late. But the second it finishes…"

She sounded disappointed. "Oh, sure. That's no problem. It's better, actually. Later is actually better for me."

Definitely disappointed. Chuck cursed Nate thrice to hell. "Blair – I'll definitely be there."

"Okay," Blair said softly.

Chuck wished he could recapture their easy flirting of only minutes ago. "Don't start the floorshow without me."

Blair laughed softly. "Well, the fans want me, what can I say."

"The fans aren't the only ones who want you," Chuck murmured.

Now she genuinely laughed. "Okay – enjoy detention. I'll see you soon. I picked up a little something I think you'll like."

"Oh I'm coming fast now. Bye."

He had been determined to spend at most five minutes ending the scuffle, and then fifteen to take Nate to Vanessa's place, so that Anne Archibald didn't have to see him in this state, before hot-footing it to the Waldorf's household for whatever delicious plan Blair had concocted. So, he wasn't sure how he had ended up here in the bar, watching women hitting on Nate and ignoring anyone who spoke to him. Hours had passed, but Nate seemed determined to drink away his woes.

Chuck felt peculiarly distant from the scene; reminiscing over the many times that their roles had been reversed, and it had been Nate sipping a drink quietly while Chuck indulged in the voluptuous world of New York at night. Chuck could not quite remember what had motivated those nights, whether he had actually enjoyed them or not. But even more blurred was the memory of the days – those brief snatches of sunlight that only punctuated times between bar visits.

Or perhaps it was just the drab quality of those daylight hours that made life intolerable. At night, everyone wanted to be his friend, but during the day, when the pressing reality of school and family overtook those he hung out with, Chuck would find himself alone. Alone, except for those friends that he could depend on. Nate – and Blair, because she would follow Nate anywhere. And so after dragging him back to his suite, Nate would fall asleep on the sofa. Secretly, Chuck loved those days; it meant that when morning came it would not come with the long, lonely day.

"You know what's great about you, man?" Nate's slurred words broke him out of his reverie.

"My dry wit and good looks?"

Nate looked briefly confused, but decided to ignore Chuck's odd comments for the time being. Chuck noticed that Nate's hand was resting on the leg of a redhead who had been fawning over him for at least an hour. He had watched Nate and Serena have sex on a bar stool, feeling only a mild surprise that Nate had it in him to truly let loose. It had not been until he had next seen Blair that it even occurred to him that Nate had betrayed her. But now, perhaps as a mark of how far Chuck had come, he was disgusted with Nate for treating Vanessa this way. Vanessa, who had somehow become Chuck's friend.

"Nah, the fact you don't give a shit," Nate said enthusiastically.

The words hurt a little. "I don't give a shit," Chuck repeated in a monotone.

"Wait that sounds bad – nah, it's more like…you know your limits."

"My limits?" Chuck inquired, peeling some blonde's hand off his leg.

"I mean, think about it. You've known you're in love with Blair since before Bart…you know. But you never say it. 'Cos you know that you have a limit. And you won't let anyone any closer than that." Nate snorted into his beer. "And even with Blair – you know that you're not made for that. You're made to be free. I envy that."

"That's, like, an amazing philosophy," said a dippy brunette.

"Can you whores leave us alone for a minute?" Chuck spat.

"In your dreams," the redhead replied snippily, her hand still fastened to Nate's leg.

"The drinks are one me," Chuck said, less unkindly. Softening slightly, and seeing that something in Chuck's face brook no refusal, she joined her fellow Archibald refugees and trouped back to the bar.

"Is that what this is, Nate? You want to be free?"

"Like you," Nate said, nodding fervently. "Like Serena was, before she came back from Connecticut. God she was beautiful. It was like watching someone spinning and spinning until they fall over."

"And you think that's freedom," Chuck said darkly. "You think that if you bang that red-head and cheat on your girlfriend – _again_ – then you'll be free?"

Even in his drunken stupor, Nate sensed that Chuck was criticising him. Crossing his arms across his chest, he narrowed his eyes. "Well it's worked for you over all these years."

"You think I've been free this whole time?"

Nate shrugged. "Of course."

Chuck chuckled darkly. "You're a real idiot you know."

Nate's face twisted into a gruesome mask – made more horrible by the fact that it was usually so handsome. "Don't call me an idiot, Chuck."

"Well stop acting like one," Chuck spat. "You've always had everything I've ever wanted. And now you're going to throw it all away just because you're sick of being perfect. You know, I shouldn't even be surprised. Just look at the way you threw Blair away to fuck Serena in a bar. How did freedom work out for you there?"

Nate stood up and pointed his finger directly at Chuck's chest, but Chuck was too disgusted with him to care. "You're one to talk, you fucking hypocrite, how many times have you thrown Blair away like she's nothing? You didn't even give a fuck that she was killing herself over you."

Chuck pushed his finger away. It was low of Nate to throw these things – the things that hurt Chuck the most – at him in anger. "Like you did? She was your girlfriend for a fucking lifetime, and you just ignored her. You ignored everything that wasn't about you. Your perfect family, and your perfect life."

"Oh we're going to do this now? We're going to see who was a worse boyfriend to Blair? You're really comfortable with this? Tell me again about your father's Arabians? Ridden hard, put away wet. Obviously not ridden hard enough it was so easy for her to fake her virginity with me."

Even as he was overcome with fury, a wry, dispassionate voice in Chuck's head commented that at the beginning of their friendship, he had crossed a line by talking about Nate's family. It turned out that Chuck had the same line, but the only thing protected by it was Blair Waldorf.

That was his last coherent thought before he punched Nate in the nose.

* * *

[1] The history lecture in this chapter is modelled on that of David W. Blight of Yale's "Civil War and Reconstruction Era 1845 – 1877". I have quoted parts verbatim, but have also taken liberties with the man's brilliant words.

[2] In Hawthorne's _The Scarlet Letter_, the heroine is forced to wear a letter "A" on her clothes as a sign of her status as an adulteress.

[3] With apologies to Philip Larkin's "Poetry of Departures".


	9. Chapter 9: The Lessons of Lord Byron II

A/N: It may be useful to read the beginning of Chapter Eight to refresh your memories about what "That Night" consisted of – the end of this Chapter returns to the evening that the previous started with. This is another long chapter – they should be shorter soon. I originally envisaged Chapter Nine as part of Chapter Eight – so I apologise if this seems like it merely ties up the loose ends left by the last chapter. It will be worth it by the end…And thank you to the kind reviewers. They keep me writing!

**Chapter Nine:**** The Lessons of Lord Byron II**

_Lovers may be - and indeed generally are - enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations._

- Lord Byron

* * *

There was a faint dripping noise that made the cell seem more like a dungeon than a barred room in a metropolitan police department.

"This is fun," Chuck said sarcastically, as Nate avoided his eyes. "The whole silence treatment thing has really got me laughing hysterically. All we need is a game of Twister and this will really be a party."

Nate just stared at his feet.

Shrugging, Chuck busied himself with staring around the tiny room that they had been locked in for hours. He remembered the first time he had been arrested – it was when he was fifteen, and he had been terrified. Caught with a fake id, the police had been going out of their way to scare him. The older he had become, the more resigned the officers tended to become, until they merely shrugged and quietly instructed him to wait for his father's lawyer to arrive. Once, when he and Georgina Sparks had been arrested dressed in actual super-hero costumes and having furtive tokes from a joint that Chuck had procured from Carter Baizen, the police officers had been so amused that Chuck had invited them out for drinks once he was liberated.

But that first time had been the worst; his father had come down to the station, no doubt hoping to compound the humiliation and terror he already felt. Bart had not said a word. He had just looked at Chuck, not as if he had been deeply disappointed, but as if he had expected nothing less.

Wanting to escape from these unpleasant memories, Chuck stared at the dishevelled Nate who sat opposite him. Nate seemed determined to ignore him. But something about being in jail made Chuck feel nostalgic; it had so often been Nate who had bailed him out, without a hint of judgement. Merely an eye roll, or a laugh. That was the thing about Nate. At most, he would seem a little envious at Chuck's gall. And that had made Chuck feel like something – someone. He may not be Nate Archibald, but he sure as hell was Chuck Bass.

"I still think that if we'd had five more minutes, I would have won," Chuck said lightly, hoping to shake Nate from his reverie.

The other boy snorted bitterly. He had sobered up immensely in the last few hours, but had remained in a foul mood.

"Seriously – I was gaining the upper hand. All my working out is really paying off."

"_You_? Work out? I hardly think so," Nate said with another grudging snort.

"I work out," Chuck said, feeling inordinately relieved that his friend was acknowledging him again.

"The one time you went for a run with me, you had your limo pick you up and drop you off at the other side of Central Park. When I found you, you were smoking a cigarette."

Chuck shrugged. "I'm not really a cardio man."

Nate seemed to remember that he was supposed to be angry with Chuck, but somehow he couldn't muster enough energy. "Yeah you'd have to take of the scarf occasionally," Nate paused. "Wait – what ever happened with your scarf? Used to be that we couldn't rip that thing off you."

"I stopped wearing it after Bart's wedding."

"Why?"

Nate always knew when Chuck was about to clam up. There was something counter-intuitive about Chuck sharing inner thoughts. He balked at the idea of exposure. He was naturally secretive, and this natural inclination had turned into an ironclad rule after years of living under Bart's roof. But, Chuck was trying to change, Nate knew that. And so he saw how unwillingly the boy struggled against his inclination to keep his mouth firmly shut.

"I gave it to Blair."

Nate raised an eyebrow, but resisted from saying anything. It would take little more than a breeze to shut Chuck off from him. It had been a long time since they had confided in each other the way they used to. And Nate felt nostalgic for those days, when things were simple. Although, they had never really been simple. He just hadn't looked hard enough.

Chuck continued unwillingly. "I mean, I left it at her house before the whole Europe thing. After I stood her up, she sent it back to me in pieces. Vindictive bitch," Chuck said fondly.

"I am never going to understand the two of you."

The mere mention of Blair's name had a strange effect on the atmosphere in the room. The expressions that played across Chuck's face when he thought first of Blair, then of hurting her, and of perhaps possessing her again – they filled Nate with regret. Not just because of the way he had spoken about her back in the bar, but also because he had never treated her well enough. It was as if he had been the owner of a precious jewel, which he had thought was junk, and passed off to someone else, only to learn that it was priceless.

It wouldn't have taken much for their paths to be altered. It would have been as simple as Nate following her to Victrola. It would have been as simple as Nate saying that he had loved her that night. And then so much would have been undone.

Chuck leant his head against the wall. "If I could take back on moment in my life, it would be the day I stood her up at the airport."

Nate was silent, so Chuck continued. "Do you realize how much I could change if I had just gotten on that stupid helicopter with her? I have never seen Bart look so proud of me as he did that day. It was a week after the wedding, wasn't it? And he liked my speech. He thought I was going to amount to something. He thought Blair was good for me. After that, he could barely be in the same room as me. I disappointed him, again. And maybe if I hadn't he wouldn't have been in that car…or I would have been with him. You know. Everything would have been different."

A silence fell over them. It was rare for Chuck to be so frank. "You think it was all because of you doing the wrong thing by Blair?"

Chuck shrugged, his eyes closed. "There's nothing worse than doing the wrong thing by Blair. I should know. I always seem to do it."

Another beat of silence.

"I called Dan Humphrey," Nate said suddenly. "To pick us up I mean."

"Good," Chuck said, still a thousand miles away – stuck in his head with the images that had been evoked by his monologue. But he suddenly opened his eyes. "Blair is going to kill me. I was meant to be at her house hours ago. I told her I was on detention."

"Why did you lie?"

The look that Chuck gave him was heartbreaking. "Because you asked me to," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh, right. Okay."

There didn't seem to be much else to say, so they sat there listening to the drip – drip – dripping of the leaking roof and thinking about paths they might have taken.

* * *

Blair had convinced herself that she wasn't waiting for him. She was just hanging around him, wearing a sexy little dress because sometimes it was nice to look nice for yourself. She just wanted to look…nice.

He was standing her up, and she was not waiting for him.

She stood in her room, at a loss. Three times she had tried to start a book, and yet each time there had been something infuriating about sitting still. She could not settle down, and as each hour passed, she felt more and more foolish in this dress, with the expensive lingerie she had purchased on the way home from Serena's house. She had been willing to meet him half way, to give him the gift of her trust. So now she was not waiting for him, she was just standing in the middle of her room.

Her phone buzzed, and with the brief thought – _it might be him_ – she leapt across her bed. She was disappointed and slightly confused when she saw it was Dan Humphrey.

"Cabbage Patch," she said sarcastically. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She could all but hear his grimace. "I wanted to know if you wanted to meet there or you wanted to share a cab or whatever?"

Blair caught sight of her own blank face in the mirror above her dresser. Her commando role had thrown the dress slightly off centre, so she busied herself with adjusting it. "Is this some kind of performance art thing? Are we doing free association?"

Dan sighed. "Come on Blair. It was hard enough getting away from Vanessa without giving Nate away – can you just cut the act and tell me what the plan is? I'm happy to pick Chuck up as well, but seeing he and Nate were just in a bar brawl, I don't know if that is the best idea."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

The silence could have stretched on indefinitely, but Blair would not allow it. "Dan," she said, using his first name to show how serious she was. "Is Chuck okay?"

"I'm sorry Blair," Dan said regretfully. "I think I'm speaking out of turn."

"Well now that you've started, you could explain to me what the hell is going on."

"I just got a call from Nate saying that he and Chuck had been arrested in a bar brawl – with each other, if you can believe that. Although it's not like I don't understand the desire to punch Chuck – no offence, not that it's offensive to you…"

"Dan did you have some kind of head injury or do you always babble like this?"

"I always babble. Just like this. I'm have the conversational equivalent of Tourette's syndrome."

"Well control yourself," Blair said.

After a soothingly deep breath, Dan's voice was full of sympathy. "So Chuck didn't call you?"

Another tiny pang in the heart. "No, he didn't. He didn't call me to tell me that he wasn't coming over and he didn't call me to tell me he was a felon"

"You know, today was the first day of Nate's dad's…thing. Maybe Nate needed him. And then, he didn't want to call you because he knew you'd be angry with him."

"I'm not angry," Blair said quietly.

"Right," Dan felt awkward having a borderline heart-to-heart with Blair. He wondered whether he should try to call Serena on the other line. "Do you want to come to the police station?"

"No," Blair said coldly, pulling off the necklace that Chuck had given her. "If Chuck wanted my help he would have asked for it."

"Blair - "

"Bye Brooklyn," Blair snapped.

It was with the composure that comes with wearing a mask for eighteen years that Blair walked to her dresser and took off her earrings. She put her palms flat on the cool glass and took a steadying breath. Surely, she was not going to cry over this. Surely, she had seen this coming. It was hardly going to stop the presses that Chuck had lied to her. That he had disappointed her.

But the tears would not be kept at bay. Feeling suddenly overwhelmingly like she was being strangled by the elaborate neckline of the wretched dress, she pulled it from her, threw it on the ground, before sinking down to meet it there.

It seemed false somehow, this gesture of prostrate grief. Surely this had once been her way, to fall entirely, to fall to pieces. But, she was not that girl anymore. And truly, she had suffered enough, had been in a war with herself for so long, that she could not put herself through it again. With a blooming, pleasant surprise, she found that although her heart hurt, and she loved him more than reasonable – despite all of the pain, she was simply not that person anymore. She would rage at him, she would cry for him. But she didn't have to fall apart completely. Because a small, unwilling part of her found that she had a tiny bit of faith in Chuck Bass.

So, she let herself cry for a while, but after a few minutes, she squared her shoulders and pulled herself to her feet, reaching for her phone.

"Humphrey – it's Blair. Tell them to come here if they don't want to go home. Yes, I'm sure. And – make sure that Chuck knows that he is in big trouble. I knew I could count on you."

With a smile, Blair went to her wardrobe, pleasantly surprised that she still had a bit of spunk left.

* * *

"Come on man," Nate said soothingly, "he said he was sorry."

Dan spread his arms wide. "I really am, Chuck."

Chuck stood facing the wall of the cell, his hands on his hips. He knew that it wasn't Dan's fault; he should have told Blair the truth. The phone call from Blair earlier, when he had impulsively lied because Nate had asked him to – that had been the first real indication he'd had that she wanted him – that perhaps she was willing to give him a second, or third – fourth. Probably fourth. And now that she knew that he had lied to her, it seemed as if their fragile accord had been shattered. It was impossibly unfair.

With a snarl that threw both Nate and Dan, Chuck punched the wall with as much force as he could muster.

Dan recalled immediately the way that Chuck had kicked the chair in his father's gallery after explaining to them that Aaron Rose had attacked Blair. It was slightly unsettling to see that when he turned around, his fist bleeding, he had fixed his mask in place. There was little more emotion than a sneer of condescension.

"It's fine."

Nate exchanged a worried glance with Dan. "Man, do you reckon we should get that hand checked out?"

"It's fine."

Shrugging, Dan led the way to the front desk, where they could pick up their personal effects. He felt like quite an old hand at the whole 'being arrested' thing. And so it was with an air of superiority that he explained the procedure to Nate, who merely rolled his eyes and muttering about Dan "Hurricane" Humphrey. Chuck was more self-possessed, ignoring both of them.

"She said that we should go over there," Dan said unwillingly, not wanting Chuck to turn around and punch him (Nate's black eye was warning enough).

That caught Chuck's attention. "Blair? She wants us to come over? All of us?"

Dan shrugged. "I think she wants the opportunity to kill you with her bare hands."

Chuck laughed bitterly, but felt slightly lighter. "That sounds about right."

Without waiting for either of them to weigh in about going to the Waldorf residence, Chuck hailed a taxi and threw himself in. With a resigned shrug, Nate climbed in after him. Dan was fairly certain that Chuck would have parted with a large portion of his bank account if the taxi driver would just move a little bit faster. The only time he broke the silence was when he turned to Dan and said, "on a scale of one to ten, how pissed off was she?"

Dan was starting to enjoy himself. "I need some kind of indication of what the scale means…"

Nate was enjoying it as well. "One being that she's just going to castrate him and ten being nuclear holocaust."

"Oh, right," Dan said thoughtfully. "I'd say about a seven. Maybe eight."

"Great," Chuck groaned.

But when they arrived at the Waldorf residence, all seemed calm. In fact, when Dorota answered the door, Chuck could have sworn that he heard laughter. Nursing his probably broken hand, he suddenly felt a little bit terrified that he was on the set of some kind of reality television program.

"Dorota, is that them?" Blair called in a light voice. "We're in the living room!"

"We?" Nate mouthed.

Dan and Chuck shrugged.

Exchanging nervous looks, Nate, Dan and Chuck took deep breaths and went to the living room to find Serena and Blair sprawled on couches in front of _Sabrina_, one of Blair's favourite Audrey Hepburn movies. Chuck couldn't help but notice that Blair looked amazing, with her hair thrown into a careless pony tail and in her casual wrap around dress.

"Oh hi Nate," Blair said lightly. "Your eye looks terrible."

"Um, hi. Yeah. I know. Chuck punched me."

Chuck stared at him with a look of betrayal on his face. "And I'd do it again," he muttered.

Dan couldn't help but feel like he was in trouble, although Serena grinned welcomingly and gestured for him to take a seat next to her. He surreptitiously went through everything he might have done wrong in the last few days. Then, he remembered that this was all part of Blair's evil plan to make Chuck into a nervous wreck, so he settled down easily next to his girlfriend to enjoy the show.

"Hey Chuck," Blair said with a smile.

"Hey…Blair," Chuck said hesitantly.

"Do you guys want to sit down and watch?"

"Why not? I've only seen this movie a thousand times," Chuck muttered, hesitantly sitting down next to Blair.

Nate hovered for a few minutes before sitting on the armchair – as far from everyone else as he could. Chuck sat as close to Blair as he dared, while leaving enough space for him to have a fighting chance to get away from her if she started throwing punches. The entire atmosphere was bizarre. And Chuck found himself growing annoyed. Was this how it was with Blair? Some ridiculous game? He had dared to think that they had moved passed this.

"Isn't this nice?" Blair enthused. "It's like a reunion special."

"Oh it's delightful," Chuck said sarcastically. "What is this Blair?"

Nate, Serena and Dan all started eying the exits.

"I'm watching a movie with Serena," Blair said simply. "What did you think I was doing?"

Chuck's head was starting to hurt as much as his hand. "Aren't you mad?"

She seemed genuinely puzzled. "Should I be mad?"

Both Nate and Dan threw him looks that screamed, 'It's a trap!', but Chuck was helplessly new at this, and he didn't sense that he was treading dangerous ground.

"Well, in the course of one day, I got you in trouble with the Headmistress, stood you up, and got arrested for punching your ex-boyfriend. It does seem like the sort of thing that you'd be mad about."

"Oh man," Nate muttered.

"Rookie error," Dan contributed.

But Blair just laughed. "Oh you're so silly."

Chuck climbed to his feet, glaring down at her. "I'm _silly_? Cut the bullshit, Blair. If you're mad, be mad. Don't make this into some fucking game."

Finally her eyes flashed darkly. "Oh because we're passed playing games, aren't we Chuck? We're passed the whole 'hot and cold' thing, right? Right?" She stood up to her full five foot four inches and glared at him. "Now let's go get you some ice."

"Some – what?"

"Ice. For your hand. It looks like it's about to fall off."

Confused and more than a little annoyed, Chuck followed her into the kitchen, while Serena, Dan and Nate started quietly discussing escape routes in the event that nuclear holocaust actually came. Blair was digging around in the fridge for ice, while Chuck stood there in her kitchen, feeling foolish with his bleeding fist.

"I'm sorry for not calling," Chuck said experimentally.

She said nothing.

"Blair, will you get out of the fridge and talk to me?"

She slammed the door, teetering between trying to keep her cool and trying to demonstrate her frustration. When she had invited Serena over, there had been a part of her that wanted to defiantly show Chuck that she was not waiting for him pathetically. Part of her had just wanted to be cruel to him; if there were an audience, Chuck would be compelled by his pride to act like a jerk. He would never be caught apologising for himself in front of other people. And Blair was determined not to let him get the upper hand, as he always seemed to when they were alone. But mostly, she was achingly, terrifyingly afraid of losing him, and if she said something foolish in this moment, she was certain he would bolt. "What's the point, Chuck?"

"Nate needed my help, and he asked me not to tell anyone. So I didn't tell you where I was."

"So you lied," she said simply, wrapping the ice in paper towels.

Chuck swallowed the wave of annoyance that washed over him. "Yes, I suppose I did." Blair gestured for him to sit down, before putting ice on his hand, which lay flat across her bench. "Why are you being so…?"

"What?" She said quietly. "I'm not yelling, am I? I'm not having a nutty fit. I'm not doing anything but icing your damn hand."

Chuck exhaled through his teeth. "I don't do _this_, Blair. You know I don't. I don't do the big conversation. I don't do the mea culpa. I just…I am trying to resist the urge to make a break for it right now. But, I want to try, you know, to be this guy…the guy who does this…"

Her eyes were so wounded when he looked at them, that it seemed as if that bruise of hers had spread all over her face. As if it had flooded into her eyes. It took her a few tries to get the words out. "How can I talk to you frankly if I'm worried your going to leave again?"

In a perfect world – a shining island where he had not been damaged and she had not hurt herself, where he was capable of feats that would do Herodotus proud, and she was capable of loving herself – in that world, he would have known how to stop that bruised look on her face. "I don't know," he said simply, smiling ruefully. "But…you know…let's give it a red hot go."

She chuckled in spite of herself. "I was upset when you didn't call. But then I realized that this time I didn't want to fall apart because of it. I didn't want to be that girl anymore."

"Which girl?"

"The girl who wants you to save her."

"I'm not the saving people type," Chuck said sadly. He was in love with the image of himself being the person who saved other people. The selfish part of him wished that she would remain vulnerable and breakable. Because then she would need his protection. "But Blair – if you think there was anywhere I'd rather have been than here with you, then you're insane. And nothing happened for you to be mad about - "

Blair was studiously examining his hand. "Except that you punched Nate? What was that about anyway?"

Now it was Chuck's turn to look away. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes," Blair said insistently. "It matters."

Chuck continued to avoid her eyes. With a sense that he was hiding something important, Blair put her hand on his face, to force him to meet her eyes. That tiny, unwilling portion of her that trusted Chuck in spite of herself – and him – was still tentative. "Chuck?"

When he looked into her eyes, he felt two impulses tugging him in different directions. On the one hand, he wanted so badly for her not to be angry with him, but on the other he didn't want to throw Nate into the line of fire. Her hand on his face, though. It was too much for him. With stiffness he never showed with her, he placed his own hand over hers.

"He just reminded me of all the times I've hurt you. I wasn't mad at him. I was mad at myself." Blair had not been expecting that. So rarely did Chuck say things that were personal, so rarely did he give anything away, that she was more moved than she had expected. Their knees were touching. But Chuck wasn't done yet. "Why did you leave this morning? I wanted to…I mean it was surprising to find you gone."

Two of the most stubborn people sitting opposite each other at an incongruously large marble table – only hours after yet another passionate undoing. What chance did they have of working things out like this? What chance did they have of working anything out? Blair sighed. It would take the tiniest steps to wind a way through this mess. And so, Blair, in the spirit of her newfound strength, decided to display the tiniest sliver of herself to a man she was only just starting to trust.

"I left because I didn't want to wake up and find that you had changed your mind. Again," she rolled her eyes.

Chuck nodded. He took a moment to take the measure of himself. He took a moment to see whether that irrepressible need to be free – the thing that Nate had _envied_ about him – would make him hurt her once more. Contemplatively, he reached out and traced the bruises on her cheek.

He swallowed. "I don't know about that, Blair. I know I have about zero credibility with you at this point. But all I know is that when I woke up and found you gone, all I could do was follow after you. That has to mean something, right?"

"I suppose," she said quietly, that lingering sense that he was about to leave her refused to be silenced. Suddenly, she laughed with only a hint of bitterness. "You know, I seriously thought that the biggest problem we would face in this…thing between us - " (Chuck had to force himself not to comment on the distasteful way she says 'thing', trying to listen instead) " – would be whether I could trust you. It didn't even occur to me that you wouldn't trust me."

"You're the only one I trust," Chuck said sincerely. His hand adjusted one of her curls. In truth, he shared her opinion about who or what would probably destroy what it was between them. He didn't trust himself in the slightest.

"Then you have to promise me that you're not hiding anything from me," Blair said intensely.

Chuck swallowed. Hadn't she said that his darkest thought was not enough to push her away? And yet he had done so again and again. There were hidden demons inside of him that even he wasn't aware of. And of course, there were the secrets that he thought would make her turn away from him in disgust: to learn, for instance, that he was not Chuck Bass, as he had always proudly proclaimed, but rather the product of an illicit love affair between a woman he had never met and a man he had begun to truly hate. It was such a small thing to reassure her, he reasoned. And that wasn't a secret that really affected her – not directly, like his whereabouts.

Blair felt a thrill of fear at his silence and contemplated the way he had lived the last four years – more than that, really. Who knew how many secrets there were lurking behind those eyes that sent electric shocks through her, but which she didn't really know. She may have gotten closer than anyone, but she couldn't really know Chuck. That was the mistake she had made with Nate; she had pressed her influence into every sphere of his life, she had made him into an extension of herself. It was really not surprising that he had needed to forge his own independence – with Serena. It didn't excuse his actions, but Blair knew – in the way that only someone who loved Chuck Bass really could – that the soul in captivity will strain for freedom.

"I won't lie to you," he finally said, knowing that he hadn't really answered his question and hoping that she didn't actually want to.

"Okay then," she said.

It was only after she spoke that she finally stopped to take the measure of him. She saw immediately that Nate had gotten in a few punches as well. They now had matching bruises. She smiled faintly at that and ran her finger lightly over his eye. He just sat there in that totem-like way he had when she showed him affection that he couldn't categorise as foreplay. Her heart ached for the childhood he must have had. Her household had, despite the present state of it, been warm throughout her childhood. The holidays especially had been perfect. And if her mother had been naturally cool, her father more than compensated with his extravagant warmth.

But Chuck had been alone. With Bart Bass and the string of women that Bart Bass kept on hand to amuse himself with. It was a wonder that he didn't curl up in foetal position whenever she touched him.

"Unfair," Blair muttered.

"I know, I'm so - "

"No," Blair protested, "you're not unfair. I just mean it's unfair that when I want to be mad at you, all you were doing was being a good friend and defending my honour. It's annoying."

"I'm annoying you?" He was amused.

"You're doing more than that to me," she whispered, leaning conspiratorially into his ear.

He grinned, standing up to get closer to her, sitting on that kitchen stool and looking delicious. "What was the thing you picked up that you thought I'd like?"

"I'm wearing it now," Blair positively purred. "Under my dress."

Chuck found it suddenly hard to draw breath through his dry throat. "I see."

Without a thought of their friends in the next room, Chuck reached out and undid the dress so that it fell open to expose the corset Blair wore underneath. He drew in a shuddering voice, allowing his hand to rest on her hip. Surely it was not possible to be so attracted to one person – when in the last twenty-four hours you had already had sex with them several times. But with Blair, he was insatiable.

"Does your hand still hurt," Blair asked quietly, moving closer to him, until he was pressed against the marble table that formed the centre of the kitchen.

"Fuck my hand," Chuck said suddenly, lifting her up and spinning around until she was half lying on the marble table. Pulling himself up there with her, he kissed her frantically. "I really am sorry," Chuck said, pausing for a moment.

She smiled wickedly. "Apology not accepted."

Chuck pulled back, feeling his face fall. "Blair - "

But she fastened her hand behind his neck. "Apology not accepted until you make it up to me."

He needed no further inducement.

Outside, in the living room, Nate frowned concernedly. "You know it's been quiet in there for a while. No shouting. It's quiet."

"Too quiet," Dan said, wagging his eyebrows at the reference.

"I'm going to check it out."

Serena stared at Nate incredulously. "Have you not learnt your lesson with those two?"

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head. "Trust me, there will be shouting soon, but not in the way you mean."

"I don't know," Dan said thoughtfully. "She was pretty mad."

"I'm going to check

* * *

it out," Nate said bravely. With a deep breath, he disappeared up the hall. Only to reappear with an ashen face a few minutes later. "Yeah, I think we should leave them to it and show ourselves out."

Dan looked surprised. "In the kitchen?"

"On the kitchen table," Nate said in a reverent tone.

"Nice," Dan grinned until he caught sight of Serena's face. "But, you know, not up to the health and safety standards of a food service area. We should write a strongly worded letter to the superintendent…"

"Oh shut up," Serena murmured, pulling his arm towards the elevator. "Let's get out of here before we see something that forces us to blind ourselves. Nate - "

For an instant, when she and Dan were moving towards the exit, she had turned around to see Nate's expression without the mask he wore for other people. There was a certain nude longing on his face. Could it be that there was regret on his face, as he stared off towards the kitchen? Serena put on her most stern face. "Come on Nate."

"What? Yeah, sure. Sorry."

Serena couldn't shake the image of him standing there, looking as if he couldn't quite understand how he had ended up on this side of the equation.

* * *

Chuck didn't have to open his eyes to know that Blair was in the bed next to him; he had kept her pressed against his bare chest all night. He was determined to enjoy this process of waking up. First he enjoyed the feeling of her naked body pressed against his, their legs entangled. He enjoyed the feeling of the hair on his legs brushing against the smooth line of her legs. When he opened his eyes, there was only a small fraction of sunlight peeking through the heavy drapes of her bedroom. It must have been the way the light fell – the dusty cast of it – but it seemed to light up an aura behind her head.

"Hey," she said, her eyes open and watching him, lying on her side.

"Hey," he said.

Surely this here was life. Expensive tastes all aside, Chuck was a man who suddenly understood what life was about: it was about waking up to a vision like this. It was about letting a dusty morning light fall over you and letting a lover see it. He could climb a mountain, read a book, eat a peach – each of those things had grace only if moments like this could pass between two people. Without this, all those things were hollow.

"Am I killing your arm? I can move," Blair said gently.

"Don't move an inch Waldorf," he commanded. "Unless it's to get closer."

"You know we will have to get up at some point. We have school today. I also thought that maybe we should go to court with Nate? You know, to show some moral support."

Chuck hadn't really given it much thought. He knew that he could trudge through the distasteful courtroom experience if it meant he could stay with Blair, and then talk to Dwight in the afternoon at detention. "Yeah, I think I might as well."

Blair smiled and traced the line of his jaw. She wanted desperately to kiss him, but was always her most insecure in the mornings. Right now, only part of her was willing to luxuriate with him, because the rest was preoccupied with calculating how long she would need to get ready, whether he would get bored waiting for her, whether her breath was stale from sleep. Chuck was suddenly aware that despite his warning, she had wriggled slightly out of his grasp. She also seemed to be glancing at the clock and angling her face away from him. With a dawning realization – remembering that he had known Blair long enough to understand her distraction – he understood.

"Blair," Chuck said incredulously, "is it possible that you're calculating how many minutes before you have to start blow-drying your hair?"

She smiled ruefully. "Control freak, remember?"

He shook his head. "Unbelievable. You're seriously worried about that shit right now?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I'm _sorry_, I know that I'm lying here with you and it's amazing, but I can't help but worry about whether I need to brush my teeth. And I know it's stupid, but it's just how I am!" She knew she was babbling, but she suddenly glared at him. "It's not like you can blame me – you're not exactly the world's best morning after person. I don't want you to see me looking all gross and thinkingmmmmm - "

Chuck kissed her – partly because there was something adorable about her diatribe and partly because it was the only way he could see to stop her speaking. He pulled back and grinned at her. "You don't need to brush your teeth."

"Liar," she whispered, before pushing him onto his back and straddling him.

"Am I about to be punished," he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You better believe it," she said as she lowered her head to kiss him and her hair curtained around his face. The doona fell away and Blair found that she didn't mind her nakedness with Chuck – he was utterly unselfconscious and there was something about his presence that reassured her.

Only a few minutes had passed when Blair became aware of something other than the feeling of Chuck deep inside of her. She paused, and it was only then that Chuck, whose hands had been on her hips, guiding her speed, stopped to listen. "Is that Dorota?"

Blair shook her head, shushing him. "Serena, maybe?"

A few seconds later, when the voices were all but outside of Blair's door, the colour drained from her face.

"Blair," he said frantically. "Tell me that's not who I think it is."

Her wide eyes told him that it was exactly who he thought it was. Holding each other's eyes for an instant, Blair suddenly pulled herself off of Chuck and wrapped herself in a dressing gown. Both of them had leapt off the bed, as if distance would be enough to throw Eleanor Waldorf – a very _angry_ Eleanor Waldorf – off the scent of what they were doing. Luckily, Chuck had pulled on his boxer shorts.

There was nothing else for it. They stood there like the guilty school children they were, Blair in her bathrobe and Chuck standing in his boxer shorts, as the door opened and Eleanor Waldorf strode in.

Had he been anyone other than Chuck Bass, he may have wondered how Eleanor could have left her daughter alone for so long. Of course, the children of the Upper East Side knew a lot about abandonment, so Chuck had merely shrugged. He had more than a sneaking suspicion that the reason he had cut her extended honeymoon short was because of the phone call from Headmistress Queller that he – Chuck – had defiled her only daughter. This was not going to be pretty.

Eleanor's polished perfection seemed even more pronounced compared to the disarray that Chuck and Blair found themselves in. For her part, Eleanor looked at her daughter severely, saying nothing, but standing there with her arms crossed. Dorota hovered in the hallway, overwrought that her beloved mistress, Blair, had been caught in a compromising position, and more worried still that it would be Dorota who would be blamed for allowing Blair to get herself into said compromising position.

Cyrus Rose wandered in innocently, "Eleanor, dear – oh my. Hello Blair…and Chuck, I believe. We haven't been introduced."

Chuck lifted a hand to shake the one that Cyrus proffered, but the venomous look that Eleanor threw in his direction forced him to reconsider. He simply waved. "Nice to meet you," he mumbled.

"What's going on here, Blair?" Eleanor finally said, her ruby red lips mirroring exactly the furious red patches on her cheeks. She wore a polka-dot blouse with a few striking splashes of red: the red poppy broach on her collarbone. Chuck couldn't help but note that the same fragile ferocity that Blair herself so often possessed was manifest in her mother as well.

"Eleanor, dear – maybe we should give Blair a minute to collect herself. Perhaps we could discuss this over breakfast…"

"No, Cyrus. I think that my daughter and I should discuss this now. I mean, really Blair? _Really_? I have always trusted you here by yourself because I thought you were mature enough to look after yourself. And then I hear from your _Headmistress_ that you're caught having sex on school property? Well?"

Blair found that she couldn't quite locate her voice. Eleanor had that effect on her. It was impossible to disagree with her when she put things like that, so Blair just shrugged helplessly, while Chuck willed an asteroid to land directly on his head. Dorota silently pulled open the drapes, as if this were any other morning. Chuck resisted the urge to laugh at the new meaning that had just been given to the phrase "cold light of day". He hated that Blair was facing this onslaught, but he didn't quite know where he stood in this conversation. After all, this was Blair's mother.

"And now I find that you're shacked up with _Chuck Bass_."

It would have been difficult to say his name with more disgust. Blair's cheeks flushed, and for a sinking moment Chuck thought that she was embarrassed, as if her mother had a point about his lowly status. But, that impression lasted only a second, before he realized that she was indignant at her mother's tone.

"What's that supposed to mean? _Chuck Bass_," Blair mimicked her disdainful tone perfectly.

"Should I maybe leave the room for this discussion?" Chuck asked sarcastically, wishing that instead of only wearing his boxers, he were dressed in some kind of armour. Eleanor's looks were that sharp.

"No, do not use that tone with me – whatever this," Eleanor gestured between them, "whatever this is between you, you have no right to stand there next to my daughter and act like I'm the bad guy."

"Stop acting like Chuck is the bad guy," Blair said, stiffly. "I'm the one you're mad at. Leave him out of this."

"No – this is about him as much as you. Because all I know is that my daughter, my _beautiful_ daughter," Blair couldn't help it, her heart raised at Eleanor's compliment, "used to be happy. She used to be stable. And then you came into her life and ever since it has been one drama to another. So I tried to stay out of it, because it's your life Blair. But when _this _starts interfering with school, when it threatens your reputation – that's when it's gone to far. So explain it to me – what is so important that you would jeopardize your future?"

Cyrus sent Blair sympathetic looks, but seemed aware that this was between mother and daughter. He and Chuck could have left the room (would have preferred it, perhaps), but both were frozen in place, fascinated by this conversation. There was even a part of Chuck that was envious; this was a conversation one had with a concerned parent, with a parent who is worried about the decisions her daughter was making. He had never really understood the dynamic between Blair and Eleanor. He had always dismissed Eleanor as cruel and distant, but Blair cared about her opinion more than anyone's. And Chuck knew that no matter how hard she defended him now, her mother's opinion would wear her down.

Blair's jaw worked, but no sound came out.

"I'm asking you Blair, what is so important about this boy that you'd risk your reputation?"

Finally, with a voice no louder than a whisper, Blair said, "I'm in love with him."

It was a devastatingly tiny proclamation; it barely filled the room. Such fragile words, Chuck felt as if he could have reached out and shattered them in the air. And it was more than he deserved; as breakable as the sentiment was, as unconfident as the delivery was, it was far more than he had given her.

Eleanor scoffed, and it was cruel of her, she knew. But she had made so many mistakes in her own life. She was determined that Blair not repeat them. And of all the things that had ruined young women's lives, it was love that was the worst. She chuckled darkly. "You're in _love_. Well. What about you, Charles? Are you in _love_ as well?"

"Eleanor," Cyrus attempted to interrupt her.

"The boy's in my house, and clearly spent the night with my daughter. And could have gotten her expelled from school just yesterday. So I'm asking – are you in love with Blair? I think I have a right to know."

Blair couldn't look at him. Chuck glanced at the bed, where less than ten minutes ago, he had been enjoying the most blissful morning that he could remember. And now he was standing in front of the only woman, outside of Blair, who really had a right to ask how he felt for Blair. He tried to reassure himself that Blair understood that he couldn't say those words to her. But he knew that Eleanor would not be nearly as forgiving. Looking out the window at the warm light the siphoned in, Chuck suddenly remembered something. He was not a child anymore, he hadn't really been a child for a long time. He was an adult, and it was hugely inappropriate for Eleanor to treat him like a child. And so, he started to pull on his clothes, breaking the spell of stillness that Eleanor had cast over the room.

"You know what?" Chuck said, finally. "I'm sorry for staying here without your blessing. And I'm sorry if you think it's any of your business. But this is between me and Blair."

"A valiant dodge of the question," Eleanor started, but found herself stopping short when Chuck raised his hand. She had never noticed how commanding he was. He must have grown up slightly.

"You don't trust me," Chuck said quietly. "And I know that my reputation clearly precedes me. And as I'm clearly not welcome here, I'll show myself out. But if you think you're going to force me out of Blair's life, you have another thing coming." With a defiant glance at Eleanor, Chuck kissed Blair's lips lightly. "Do you want me to pick you up before we head to the courtroom?"

She shook her head slightly. "It's okay. I'll walk."

He tried not to worry about the look on her face, and tried not to speculate about what might be going on in her head. As he walked passed Eleanor, he paused and took a deep breath. "I look forward to gaining your approval Eleanor," he said.

The woman snorted as if that was unlikely. Chuck tapped Cyrus on the shoulder as he left, throwing one more look at Blair on his way out.

_And this,_ he thought wryly, as he walked onto the street downstairs, lighting a cigarette, _is why I am not a morning after person._

_

* * *

_

Chuck hadn't had the chance to speak to Blair before they had entered the courtroom, but at the end of the morning, he found himself stumbling back into the sunlight desperate to speak to her. There was quite a crowd outside of the courtroom.

Some of the on-lookers were being paid to report on the proceedings, some were just taking a vindictive pleasure in the downfall of a Wall Street magnate. Others were merely members of Nate's fan club, determined to squeal in his direction during his time of need.

Chuck was walking close to Nate and his mother, determined not to allow the press to get too close. Vanessa hovered somewhere behind them, with Serena, Dan and Blair leading the way. Chuck mused that Blair had called in all the reinforcements in this attempt to rally around Nate. The Captain, having already proven himself a very large flight risk, was being kept in custody.

For her part, Blair was in a blur – after her mother had figured that she was going to get nowhere with Blair that day, Blair had finally found herself with time to process what had transpired in her room. It was yet another blow to be forced to articulate those feelings that Chuck couldn't – or wouldn't – reciprocate. She had been too aware of him throughout the proceedings. Even as she reassured Nate, she had been aware that Chuck had slipped in late, and had been forced to sit near Serena, further along the row. She had also been aware of the looks he had thrown her repeatedly as the Prosecutor carried on with his assault of the Captain.

Nervous of the press, Chuck had ushered Mrs. Archibald and Nate into a waiting car, and although she wouldn't have realized it, he was acutely aware of Blair's eyes on his back. There was that much power in her gaze. But, when he turned back to the crowd, he couldn't immediately see her in the throngs of people.

He had once read – probably in _Playboy_, which did occasionally have good articles – that some neuroscientists believe that when another person becomes significant in someone's life, there is a small space in the brain, which lights up for that person alone. That's why a friend will stand out in a crowd, while the rest will blend into a mass.

So, Chuck wasn't surprised to find that as the crowd dispersed, he was staring right at Blair.

Unaware of anyone else around them, they walked towards each other. Chuck shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling more nervous than he really should have been about talking to her. For her part, she fiddled with a bracelet on her wrist.

"It was horrible today, wasn't it?"

"Was it worse after I left?" Chuck grimaced.

Blair blushed. "Oh, I meant in the court…"

"Oh right, sure."

There was an awkward pause. Finally, Blair broke the tension, "I still don't understand why he did it, you know? How could you take that sort of risk – gamble your family's future? I don't understand it."

"He didn't want to lose everything," Chuck said quietly, standing in front of her without touching her in the slightest. "You're right, he didn't need more money, he didn't need more drugs. But all you need is to not live up to expectations, one time – one moment of weakness…it only has to happen once, and then that decision changes everything. And then your life becomes trying to hide it."

"Trying to hide the mistake?"

Chuck nodded.

"I can understand that," Blair said softly, thinking of the first time she had pushed her finger down her throat until her stomach heaved.

"So," Chuck said, still unable to shake the feeling of awkwardness between them and the volumes of unspoken words that they should have been sharing about Eleanor's diatribe this morning. "I have my detention thing this afternoon, but I thought maybe tonight we could - "

"I think Nate wants all of us to go out with him. A sort of commiseration thing."

"Yeah," Chuck said, slightly disappointed. "That sounds good."

He seemed to have used up his quota of heroism this morning while facing down Eleanor. Sensing that Blair was miles away, he kissed her lightly no the lips, hoping that these small tokens he could give her would be enough to distract her from the Big Thing.

But, of course, it was never enough. He was losing her.

* * *

Blair glanced around the bar for what seemed like the fifteenth time. If Nate noticed, he did not let on, drinking immoderate amounts of beer in this bar, which she would never have been caught dead in, had she not sensed Nate's need for his friends. For his part, he had assured her that the others would be here soon – that they were held up, or that they had needed to drop by the gallery, or some other excuse, which transmutated as the minutes passed. Even Chuck was running late, assuring her that this Dr. Dwight character had wanted to show him some poetry. It all sounded very suspect to Blair, but after the morning that had passed between them, she felt in need of some space.

In fact, being with Nate was of some comfort – even when he was in this state of growing intoxication. Being near him made her remember the simplicity of the time they had spent together. How "I love you" had merely been part of a natural progression; they had envisaged a trajectory for their lives and had stuck to it stubbornly. Even Nate, until his indiscretion with Serena, had been as determined as Blair to live out their fairytale ending. Blair knew that she had been the one desperately pulling their ends together towards the end, but Nate had for a long time wanted nothing more than they had talked about in quiet corners at their respective parents' houses.

And then came Chuck and the catastrophic changes – catastrophic because they had consumed entirely the small and picturesque world that Nate and Blair had created together.

Her life could be divided then, between BC and AC – Before Chuck and After Chuck. And no matter what transpired between Chuck and Blair, he had forever changed the meaning of love for her, and she could never go back to the state that she had once been in.

Being around Nate, though – it did make her nostalgic. And judging by the way he kept looking at her, sitting on the next bar stool along, it made him quite nostalgic as well.

"May I ask you an awkward question, Blair?"

She smiled, feeling generous towards Nate tonight. "Awkward, embarrassing?"

He shrugged. "Awkward – about you and me."

"Sure," she said, hesitating slightly and glancing at her phone to see if Chuck had called her.

"Do you think that if the whole…you and Chuck thing…hadn't happened, then we would have stayed together? In spite of Serena?"

Blair considered the painful memories he referred to. "You know, I think they might have. You were trying so hard to be a good boyfriend when we got back together – and I wanted nothing else than to be with you. So yes, I think we might have stayed together."

He nodded. "So do I."

Once more, he held her eyes, and Blair found herself growing uncomfortable. Wanting to be gentle with him, she put her hand on his arm. "But, that's all in the past, Nate. I'm glad we are friends now."

Cutting his eyes away, he ordered another drink. "So you and Chuck. Seems like everything's on track."

Blair laughed darkly. "I thought so, until Eleanor and Cyrus walked in on us this morning and demanded that Chuck profess his undying love for me in front of the whole family."

"Ouch," Nate said, with a sinking feeling. "And what did he say?"

It was Blair's turn to cut her eyes away. "Something about how he was an adult now, couldn't be ordered around…well, basically he ran away. Not that I blame him."

"That sounds like Chuck."

She picked up the martini he had known to order without asking. He was right; it did sound like Chuck. It suddenly dawned on her that she had before her the only other person in the world that Chuck would expose himself to. A veritable almanac of Chuck's private words and thoughts, slightly tipsy and in the mood for distraction. Suddenly eager, Blair leaned forward.

"Nate, can I ask _you_ an awkward question?"

"Sure," Nate said nervously.

"What did you think when you first heard about me and Chuck? I mean apart from being angry, what did you think?"

"I was worried about you," Nate said truthfully. "Even as I lashed out at you, I thought that Chuck must have tricked you somehow – and that he'd hurt you." Noticing her body language as she leant forward to listen to him, he suddenly remembered the scene that he had observed between Blair and Chuck the night before: the sheer abandon of Blair. It had reminded him of the wild days of Serena. Chuck had awoken it within her, he knew, but he also knew that she was still the old Blair, that could never countenance the belief that the man she was dating was not in love with her.

"Are you still worried?"

It was a horrible betrayal, Nate knew. He knew that he could say things that would tide Blair over for a time, give Chuck the time he needed to collect his courage and say those words that even Nate knew were true. But really, Nate thought, rationalizing as his hand came to rest on Blair's knee. Hadn't Chuck taken Blair from him originally? Hadn't he known the inner-most workings of their relationship? And hadn't he taken all those doubts that Nate had confided in him and used them to form the justification of stealing Blair away from him? It was nothing that Chuck wouldn't do himself, Nate reasoned through the haze of heartache and alcohol. He couldn't even think about Vanessa and her misguided faith in him. Now, there was only the gleaming image of the way things had been and the ruinous heap of how things were.

"Yes," Nate said finally, "I am."

"Oh," said Blair, leaning back from him.

Nate leant forward, with a hand still on her knee, ostensibly in comfort. It was easy, in the blurred lines of a relationship-turned-friendship to take these liberties. "Chuck's my best friend. And he's a lot of fun. And he's been through hell. But I don't think he's ever going to give you the happy ending that you deserve, B."

She was silent, so he ploughed on – his betrayal was easier the more he spoke. He was starting to convince himself, casting himself in the role of noble protector.

"I know that neither of us ever thought we'd end up here – you waiting for Chuck to become someone he isn't, while I watch my father in a courtroom while the rest of Manhattan argues about how big his cell should be. We've both taken detours, I suppose. But don't you ever think about the way we used to talk about the future? The way we used to think we would be one day?"

She did. She could taste the golden image that wavered in her mind. Because they were beautiful in it. But, even as he spoke, she knew that it would never happen. It was the realm of fantasy – it was down the rabbit hole. To settle with Nate, even though he was beautiful and charming, to settle with someone easy after touching the complex depths of Chuck would never feel like anything but a compromise. With sudden awareness, she saw the way he touched her leg, the way he leant in – even that familiar look in his eyes. Looking around the bar once more, she said quietly, "Nate, where's Vanessa?"

Although the hurt, regret, and guilt chased each other across his face, Nate refused to pull away. "She's not here."

And finally Blair understood that no one else would be coming tonight. That Nate had merely wanted to recapture the one part of his old life that wasn't currently behind bars. Although she ached for him, she knew that she could not be a party to this; Vanessa was her friend, Chuck was the love of her life. So, with as much dignity as she could muster, Blair stood up.

"I think that I should be going, Nate."

But as he saw the final piece of his old life step away from him. He reached for her arm and pulled her closer to him, still on his bar stool. "No – stay."

"No. I know what will happen if I stay, and I don't think it's right for either of us – or fair to...the other people in our lives. I know you're upset, but we've both moved on for a reason."

He was petulant in his disappointment, still holding onto her arm. "But you said that if there were no Chuck - "

"Forget what I said."

His eyes burned into hers and she saw a sliver of that desperation that had been in Chuck's eyes that horrible night when he had disappeared forever. That need, muted, but still in Nate's eyes. The need to turn back time – a need that could never be fulfilled. Perhaps it was the echo of Chuck in Nate's face that softened her resolve; she didn't pull away – she just stood there. And Nate, sensing her hesitation, put his hands on the back of her thighs to gently pull her towards him, still sitting, still burning into her eyes. But, as she realized what was happening, Blair tried to pull away.

"What are you doing, Nate?"

"I'll tell you what he's doing – he's getting his fucking hands off my girlfriend," a new voice snarled from behind Blair's head.

It was the worst possible moment for Chuck to arrive – and so of course, he arrived just then. Blair knew what it looked like, and she turned her wide eyes to Chuck as Nate's hands fell from her legs. "Chuck - "

But Chuck ignored her, roughly pulling her arm so that he stood between Nate's hands and her body. His face was a mask of fury, and even Nate seemed cowed by it. "What the fuck are you doing, Nate?"

Nate stood up. It was the sort of bar that sensed a fight about the break out, and the patrons turned to watch what was going on between those two boys – both bruised already. Someone started placing bets.

"Come on, man," Nate said, chin held high. "It was nothing you wouldn't have done."

Chuck sucked in a shaky breath through his teeth. Blair could feel the tensed state of his shoulders and felt the anger radiating off him towards her. But his hand dug into the skin of her forearm. "So we're doing this again, Nate? You want to fight me again?"

"No," Nate said flatly. "I just want to undo some of the damage that you've done."

"Chuck – come on, let's just go," Blair begged, but her voice faltered when he shot her a venomous look. He turned back to Nate.

"Let's be honest," Chuck spat. "You just can't stand it when I'm not the fuck up – when my life isn't shit. You hate it that things are going right for me."

Nate said nothing, just crossed his arms over his chest. Chuck shook his head at the other boy's silence. Part of him had wanted to believe that his best friend didn't begrudge him the tiny amount of happiness that he had found. His anger diffused slightly, but the pain that came upon him next was worse.

"That's it isn't it?"

Without looking at him, Nate nodded slightly.

The three of them stood still. Blair could tell there would be no fight tonight. But it was worse somehow, to see the pain that Chuck was in. Although his grip on her arm was still painful, she placed her other hand on his, as if this painful grasp was precious to her. Without looking at her, Chuck merely said, "We're leaving."

Blair was so relieved that he had said "we" that she didn't mind the imperious tone he used – didn't mind that they were leaving Nate alone. She didn't even mind that Nate had been using her as a pawn in some jealous game with Chuck. She was filled with fear that Chuck would push her away, and so the vice like grip on her was a comfort.

Once they left the heat of the bar and the cooler air of outside met them, Chuck dropped her arm and she felt a thrill of foreboding.

When he spoke, his voice wavered. "What the hell was that in there, Blair?"

"That was Nate," she said forcefully. "It was Nate trying to recapture something long dead." When he didn't respond, she stopped walking, putting her hands on her hips. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"Let's just go," Chuck said flatly.

"No – tell me that you believe me first."

Chuck shoved his hands in his pockets, as if keeping them in there would stop the words he was thinking from escaping. "I think that you're pissed at me – and that you went running back to Nate like you always do."

Suddenly fear was replaced by anger. The gall of him, not to trust her, when she was taking on faith this entire relationship. "So you're telling me that you don't trust _my_ feelings for _you_? That's rich, Chuck – even from you."

He spread his fingers wide in an affected gesture of surrender. But the image of Nate with his hands on her refused to dissipate, and in truth he was spoiling for a fight. "What the hell am I meant to think, Blair? Tell me you're not trying to get back at me for not saying those words to you. Tell me this isn't punishment."

"It's not – it is Nate - "

"I don't want to hear about Nate," Chuck exploded. "This isn't about Nate. It's about how long you're going to punish me for what I've done to you."

Blair felt tears coming, but was determined not to cry. Her voice jumped around, wavering on the brink of tears. "It _wasn't_. But even if it was, can you blame me? You humiliated me in front of my mother."

"So this _is _a punishment," Chuck said triumphantly. "You're angry that I didn't say it – and so you brought me here to give me a front row seat to the Groundhog Day performance of Nate and Blair, 2.0."

"There is no Nate and Blair," she shouted, ignoring the worried glancing of onlookers. "And this is not about me – this about you being _thrilled_ that now you have an excuse to push me away. Because now you can walk away without it being your fault." She all but stamped her feet, tears flowing freely now.

His face was cruel. "At least if I walked away you could finally have what you want – you're perfect fucking fairytale with Nathaniel. You know what – go back to him. You have my blessing."

She couldn't hold back any longer. Her tears fell with abandon. She saw a ripple of guilt cross Chuck's face when he saw how overwrought she was. With a stumbling step towards him, she grabbed his arm. She didn't know what she was saying; she just knew that as long as she kept talking he wouldn't walk away from her. The gleaming vision she'd had of her and Nate earlier seemed suddenly threatening and horrible. "Don't say that. Don't say you want me to walk away from you. I love you, please – just stop saying these things."

But he was stoic. He let her grasp onto his arm, sobbing. It was his worst fear: that she would run back to Nate, who had always been better than Chuck. And now, even as the sensible part of his brain hammered its fists against his skull, urging him to do anything to keep her with him, he was filled with guilt over the fact he could never live up to Nate. Never even say those words to her.

Blair noticed that he wasn't doing anything: that he was just standing there. And suddenly her pride overtook her and she pulled back, fearful that he was merely putting up with her, that he didn't feel the same horror that she did at his sending her away. She noticed that they were outside his limo. It was fitting somehow, that this scene should play out for the second time in her life in the same way as it had the first.

The cold truth dawned on her. "You want me to walk away, don't you?"

He said nothing; that was all he ever seemed to say. With a sinking feeling, Blair knew how the rest of the scene was to play out.

"Do you love me?"

There – that question that she had asked Nate so long ago. And now that she had asked him straight, surely he would have to answer. Even he had said that it was no one's business but hers. Minutes passed, and Chuck just stood there, his jaw working, but no words coming out.

"Thank you, that's all I needed to hear," she said, sensing the ghost of a conversation passed. And she walked away, tears flowing.

And still, Chuck just stood there.

* * *

**Four Days Later:**

Serena was exhausted as she knocked on Chuck's bedroom door. It seemed that the last four days had consisted of attending to a bedridden, druken Chuck or a depressive Blair, doing no more than going through the motions.

"Chuck," Serena said gently, opening the door as she knocked. "You have detention. Get up."

For days, the only sign of life he displayed was when he surfaced for his detention with Dr. Dwight. She was worried about him, worried about the pallor of his face and the distant set of his eyes. But, every time she saw him, she was reminded of the state that Blair was in, and part of her wanted to hit him on the upside of the head for being so stubborn.

"Chuck," she said when she saw no movement. "You'll be late for Dwight."

"Thanks," he said quietly.

That was definitely cause for alarm; Chuck never said things like 'thanks' unless it was part of a wider sarcastic comment, or after paying a prostitute. Serena backed out of the room, wondering how long he could subsist this way. She silently moved towards the door, biting back the advice she longed to give him.

"Serena," he said quietly. "Have you spoken to Blair."

"Yes," she said, just as quietly. "What do you want to know?"

"Has she run off with Nate yet?" His voice was bitter and Serena felt a thrill of anger at his implicit accusation that Blair would give up on him so fast.

"No," Serena said, snippily. "She's devastated – and if you knew Blair at all, you'd know that. Now get up and get over yourself."

With that, Serena flounced from the room, leaving him to dress himself and get on his way to school in the afternoon sunlight.

Chuck knew that he must seem like a child, sleeping all day and avoiding the world. But one thing that Serena could not see was that he physically ached: that he had never hurt like this. The feeling of being so close to a distant happiness, only to have it ripped away because of his own inadequacy – it was too much. Too much for someone like him, who had never wanted to be close to anything, or anyone, and who didn't even know where to begin to fix things.

He knew that Lily was worried; she sent Serena into his room in an attempt to give him space – show that she wasn't adopting the maternal attitude she assumed that he would recoil from. But he was aware of her hovering outside of his door, of her sending food to him. And, surprisingly, he appreciated it.

When Chuck arrived at Dwight's office, he felt as if his brittle bones may break; every movement was laboured and painful. He had never expected that Blair's absence would hurt so palpably. With a heavy sigh, he settled in his usual chair and simply stared at Dwight, who was, as usual, writing furiously with books open before him. But today, he settled a remarkably probing gaze on Chuck's face.

"You haven't been coming to school," Dwight observed.

Chuck shrugged. "Independent study."

Dwight observed his red-rimmed eyes and his slumped figure. "How much studying have you been doing?"

"Not a lot," Chuck admitted honestly.

"That company of yours taking up all of your time?" Dwight never managed to fully mask his disapproval of Bass Industries.

"No. I haven't gone to the office for a while."

Dwight tilted his head. "So basically, you're doing nothing."

"Pretty much," Chuck said.

Dwight stared into Chuck's deadened eyes – and bizarrely, a smile spread across his face. He was a strange cat, Chuck mused. "So what's her name?"

Suddenly cautious, Chuck sat up slightly. "Who says it's a girl?"

The old man settled a stern look on Chuck's face. "What's her name?"

Sensing that he couldn't lie to Dwight, Chuck sighed. "Blair."

"I see," Dwight said thoughtfully, steepling his fingers under his chin. "And what's the problem?"

Chuck was unused to this: an adult asking him questions about his life because Chuck might need to talk about them. Usually, Bart had asked these things merely to catch Chuck in a lie. For her part, Lily never presumed to ask him personal questions. So, with an exhausted willingness to try anything, Chuck shrugged. "I have a small mechanical problem."

Dwight raised an eyebrow, laughing outright when Chuck realized how that had sounded. "I assure you – _that_ is not the problem," Chuck said with a hint of pride. "I can't tell her…how I feel about her. I can't say…you know…that I love her."

"Ah," Dwight said, noting how Chuck's eyes were fixed on the bookshelf, clearly embarrassed by the very words. Standing up, the old man strode to the bookshelf and handed him a thick tome.

"Wow a book," Chuck said sarcastically. "All my problem's are solved."

Dwight ignored his sarcasm, leaning against the shelf, toying with one of his suspenders and remembering the years of his youth. Chuck glanced at the book in his hand. "Lord Byron," he said, reading the spine. "Thanks for the help, Dwight, but I don't think that reading poetry to Blair is going to fix what's happened to us. I'm not that guy – I'm not the 'I love you' type."

Again, Dwight ignored him. "In his youth – and even beyond it – Lord Byron was one of the premier poet's of his time, as well as one of the most renowned womanisers. He bedded hundreds of women, had mistresses all over Europe."

"Sounds like my kind of guy," Chuck commented with renewed interest.

"One of his mistresses was a woman named Teresa Guiccioli, who lived in Ravenna Italy in the nineteenth century. She was possessed of a great library, and one day, he wrote her a love letter – it's page 244 in that book."

Chuck opened the old book, the smell of dust and learning assaulting his nose. With Dwight's gaze upon him, he read:

_25 August, 1819 _

_My dearest Teresa, _

_I have read this book in your garden; my love, you were absent, or else I could not have read it. It is a favorite book of yours, and the writer was a friend of mine. You will not understand these English words, and others will not understand them, which is the reason I have not scrawled them in Italian. But you will recognize the handwriting of him who passionately loved you, and you will divine that, over a book, which was yours, he could only think of love. _

_In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours – Amor mio – is comprised my existence here and hereafter. I feel I exist here, and I feel I shall exist hereafter - to what purpose you will decide; my destiny rests with you, and you are a woman, eighteen years of age, and two out of a convent. I love you, and you love me - at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which last is a great consolation in all events. _

_But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you. Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and ocean divide us, -but they never will, unless you wish it._

Looking up, Chuck said, "it's nice."

Dwight turned his eyes skyward. "It's nice, he says. It is an expression of love – the most towering, ballsy, heroic thing a man can compose and you say 'it's nice'?"

"I've mastered the art of pith," Chuck dead-panned.

"Do you know why Byron wrote that letter?"

Chuck shrugged. "Probably to get Theresa into bed."

Dwight shook his head. "He wrote it in a book, in English and then put it back on her shelf. He didn't write it for her to read it, although she might have chanced upon it one day. So why did he write it?"

Chuck shook his head. "I don't know."

"He wrote it because he knew that love makes a man strong, and that something so wonderful, so powerful had to be said – had to be written, should be communicated at any cost. Not just for the object of love. But because loving someone else is a triumph, and should be shouted from the mountaintops, even if our lover never hears." Dwight sat at his desk. "Now get out of here and see to your woman."

* * *

**That Night **[1]

…"It's not enough," Blair whispered sadly, turning to walk to the kitchen.

He remembered the scene he had concocted between Nate and Blair – the road not travelled. It was such a little thing – the passage from this room to the kitchen, and yet Chuck felt it was a moment for the ages: the most important moment he would live with Blair. If she left this room, she would be leaving his life. He knew this somehow. He had to stop her.

"Blair – wait."

She didn't square her shoulders, so it wasn't exactly the way he had imagined it may have been with Nate if he had said those words. Rather, her shoulders drooped slightly more – if possible. But, she did turn to look at him. And even now, the electricity of their eye contact felt as if it were a physical blow. Chuck sucked in a deep breath, struck by the power of it, and in a single moment of melting eye contact with Blair, relived the week that had started so well and had fallen so darkly and completely to the wreckage that he saw between them now.

"Blair - "

Words always seemed to fail him, and Blair knew it. So she merely raised her hand, to stop him from speaking perhaps. "Let's just take care of Nate."

And so they did. Chuck shelved the resentment he felt towards his best friends, and doused him in cold water (enjoying it a little more than he was willing to admit). Blair made tea, and finally, Nate was able to walk by himself, although he leant heavily on Chuck's shoulder. As they walked to the elevator – an awkward Nate-Chuck four legged creature – Nate's lolling head turned to Chuck's ear.

"I'm so sorry, dude," Nate murmured.

"Shhh," Chuck said, avoiding Blair's eyes as she stood near them with her arms crossed. "It's fine, man. Don't apologise."

That seemed to be of some comfort to him. So, wordlessly, they climbed into the elevator. Chuck and Blair stared at each other, without saying a word. Without breaking eye contact, they stood and stared at each other until the doors closed. Only then, when a reflection of himself in the metal doors replaced the view of an exhausted and overwrought Blair, did Chuck let out the breath he had been holding.

He was almost certain that Blair had not seen him place that precious edition of _Alice's Adventures of Wonderland_ – that she had given him for his eighteenth birthday – on the hall table. Uncertain that she would think to open it to find the letter that he had written to her, but feeling finally as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

To shout love from the mountaintops, Dwight had said. Or in Chuck's case, to whisper them into the night and hope that they carried to the only ears he wanted to hear them.

When the elevator doors closed, and Blair saw her exhausted face mirrored in the doors, she let out a weary sigh. Nate had come to her asking for forgiveness, in a state of grief, fearing that Chuck would never forgive him, fearing that Blair would send him away from her. She had been gentle with him, and something in her had known that the real person he wanted to see was Chuck. Although it hurt her to even think about Chuck, she hoped that he might find it in him to forgive Nate. Although forgiveness had never been one of Chuck's strong points.

She gazed around the room, seeking a point of reference, something solid to steady herself after the exhausting interaction with Chuck. It was only then that she noticed the book sitting on her hallway table. Had Chuck left it there? She hadn't even noticed it in his hands when he'd arrived. Possibly because she had tried so hard not to look at him, lest it make the dull ache under her skin even worse.

Now she saw that it was _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_, she stopped cold. He was returning her gift. For the first, searing time, she realized that it must truly be over between them. Feeling those tears that had never truly subsided coming over her once again, she scooped up the wretched book and considered throwing it away, as some kind of symbolic acceptance of what she had lost.

She considered throwing all that she and Chuck were into the modest dustbin that sat in the kitchen. But in spite of herself, she found that she couldn't put it down, couldn't do anything but clutch it to her chest. In the mood for masochism, she decided to read just the first chapter.

There was no premonition as she sat down, nothing but the knowledge that this wasn't a healthy activity. Nonetheless, she enjoyed her tortuous activity, sniffing the cover of the old book. Skipping to the first chapter, she suddenly noticed that there seemed to be some dark ink sinking through the old paper. Biting her lip, she opened the cover to find Chuck's handwriting; she knew it from that note he had written her when he disappeared from her bed. She knew it from the words he had written on that strip of paper for ethics class. She knew it because she knew Chuck.

_My dearest Blair, _

_I have read this book with you and alone, and I find that it has become my favorite. Half of me hopes that you never open it again, and just assume that I gave it to you to be cruel. Sounds a bit like something I would do. _

_But if you do open it, I hope that you know that the only reason I was able to write these words is because of you. Because you were brave and stupid enough to love me. And even though I was always taught to believe that love was a weakness, I've seen how strong you are. So much stronger than me, who isn't even brave enough to say this to your face – who hides it in a book that you and I both love._

_I'm not good with words, Blair. But I suppose that I wanted to put these words out there – in the hope that the universe, or whatever it is out there in the dark sky would hear them. I wanted to say them because they're true. I wanted to say them, even if they don't fix anything – even if the cruel things I say weigh more than the three words I never said to you when you were awake. _

_So I've decided to take a leaf out of Lord Byron's book, by saying the only thing that I am certain of: I don't just love you - I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you. And even if you never speak to me again, you'll always have my heart._

_- Chuck_

_

* * *

_

Now that the flurry had passed, and Nate was safely in bed in the guest room, Chuck found himself once more alone with his thoughts.

There was still so much to regret, so much to undo. And so much left to do. But Chuck felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had found that when he started writing, he couldn't stop. All of those romantic words that had terrified him had guided his hand, his pen, so that he couldn't tell whether his mind controlled pen or vice versa.

It truly was a confession, he mused. A confession of love – just the act of confessing lifted a great weight. His heart contracted when he remembered that Blair had felt the need to unburden herself at Confession after their first night together.

At a loss, Chuck sat on his bed and stared at his bookshelf. It seemed empty now that Blair's book was gone.

There was a knock at the door, startling Chuck from his reverie. It was probably Serena, Chuck mused, ready to be the victim of another talking to from his step-sister. Frustrated, he stomped over to the door.

"What?" He said in an exasperated tone as he pulled open the door.

"Chuck - " Blair said, surprised at his aggressive tone.

"Blair," he said, surprised and thrilled by her presence in his bedroom. "I thought you were Serena."

Blair didn't seem to be listening. Shaking her head, she walked into the room without uttering a word. Standing in the middle of his room, as she had so many times before, she stared at the wall behind his bed, collecting herself, and trying to still the beating of her heart as it thundered in her ears.

Worried and hopeful, Chuck swallowed the lump in his throat. "Blair?"

When she turned around, "I read your letter."

Chuck nodded. "And?"

She shook her head, incredulous – touching her forehead slightly, as if she were dizzy. "Was it true – what it said?"

He nodded.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath. He had no idea what he had been expecting, but it was certainly not this stillness. Worried by her reaction, he took a few steps towards her, "Aren't you going to say anything?"

There were tears in her eyes. "Nothing I say right now will ever be as beautiful as what you wrote in that book."

With that, she catapulted herself into his arms.

This had to be a new level of desperate need, Chuck mused as she pulled at his clothes and he almost tore her dress from her in his mad need to touch her. Tumbling onto the bed, he stared down at her eyes, her face, wondering how he could have been afraid to tell her – in his own, tacit way – that he loved her. If this was love, this was magnificent. And suddenly, written words didn't seem to be enough, he pulled back.

Concern crossed her features, masking her lust for an instant. "What's wrong?"

"It's just that…I mean. It's - you – you're everything to me, Blair." Her eyes widened – nothing he had written had prepared her for the way the words would sound in his voice, with his body pressing down on hers. Now he had started speaking, he found he couldn't stop. But the words, when they came out, were confused, jumbled. Not clear like hers. "There's nothing – there's no one else who I could ever feel this way…I mean. You're just - _everything_ that is good in my life. You're the cause." He kissed her, as light as a butterfly. "I can say it – I love you, Blair. I'm sorry it's taken me so long."

And she smiled mischievously, before pushing him onto his back, straddling him.

"If you thought that was long – you have no idea what you're in for."

"Hey – that's my line," he grinned.

"Shut up, Bass."

* * *

[1] Remember to look at the beginning of Chapter Eight!


	10. Chapter 10: The Sorrow of Love

**Chapter Ten: The Sorrow of Love**

_The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,_

_The full round moon and the star-laden sky,_

_And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,_

_Had hid away earth's old and weary cry._

_And then you came with those red mournful lips,_

_And with you came the whole of the world's tears,_

_And all the sorrows of her labouring ships,_

_And all the burden of her myriad years._

_And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,_

_The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,_

_And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves_

_Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry._

- "The Sorrow of Love", William Butler Yeats

* * *

Too soon, Chuck mused, stroking her hair. Too soon the unquiet world would intrude on their sanctuary, and the pressing needs of the new day would wake them from their reverie. Then, they would be forced once more to be themselves.

Tracing a line down her cheek, he wondered what was going on behind her eyes. "What are you thinking?"

This was new for Chuck. It was as if he had walked through life as a blind man, and now found himself suddenly with sight, terrified of the world in full living colour. Seeing for the first time, he missed every signal – he questioned every facial expression. It was, in his unpoetic opinion, completely fucked up.

Having finally taken that terrifying step of confession, Chuck found that Blair had never seemed so threatening to him. She was so full of secrets and here she was, in possession of his heart. There would never be enough time to know every inch of her, and so he would have to take what she gave him.

"I'm thinking about how I never want to leave your bedroom."

"Good," Chuck murmured into her temple, closing his eyes to savour the image. "We'll live off room service. I'll conduct business from bed. I'll hire Yale professors to teach you in here." He didn't open her eyes, but he could feel her smiling. "What about school though?"

Blair made a show of searching her brain. "Hmmm. Problematic. I suppose that Dwight can just join us in bed – there's plenty of room."

"I like Dwight – but the day he gets to share a bed with you will never come," he growled in a low tone, settling himself above her to prove his point.

A few tantalizing minutes of playful kissing elapsed. Both of them sensed that their solitude would be fleeting. Pulling back and regarding each other, their thoughts were exactly, if silently, in sync. Because both of them were wondering what chance they had. Like met like as Chuck and Blair's gazes met. Both cast in the same mould: proud, stubborn, and both possessing the dark magic of destruction.

Chuck knew that he would be bad at this, that he would push her away in a vain attempt to keep her at a distance. He knew that he would fall at Blair's feet, when she was cold and he was aching for warmth. He knew that he would prostrate himself before this her, and that part of him would hate her for it, even when his lips ached to kiss her.

For her part, Blair played scenes of the immediate future in her head. She knew that she would drive him insane, with her intermittent prideful coldness and her desperate neediness. She knew that she would try desperately to change him into something new, and that he would fight her with cruel words, and she would beg his forgiveness: she would swear to him that she didn't want him to change one fraction.

It was inevitable.

Neither of them smiled; the mood was too solemn for that. But if it were a night for inevitabilities, then the words that Blair uttered next seemed perfect:

"I love you."

Chuck grimaced slightly, convinced he would never get used to saying this words. But at the sight of her, he knew it was true. So he murmured back, "I love you, too."

Both were full with the knowledge of their own imperfections, they enjoyed the silence of the night as it slumbered. One thing they didn't know then, although they might have sensed it, was that they would say those words in a hundred different ways: breathily in an undertone, shouted in accusation, wholesomely, in public, in private, in passion, unwillingly, expansively, and on and on.

It was inevitable.

* * *

"And all I get is a _text_ message," Eleanor said for the umpteenth time, as her diminutive husband spread jam over his badly burnt toast. For the life of her, she would never understand how he could stand the sticky charred taste of marmalade and blackened bread. With a small smile, even through her ranting, she accepted the coffee he had poured for her: with a dash of milk and a cube of sugar.

There was something thrilling about the most humdrum domestic routine when it was performed in lock-step with someone that you care deeply about. And regarding Cyrus through those glasses that perched on her nose, she felt cherished. Once it had taken diamonds and fresh blooming flowers to make her feel truly romanced. Harold, despite his most obvious flaw, had been a great romancer. And despite the vindictive rumours that were traded in the Upper East Side, she had been truly clueless about his homosexuality when she had married him.

She had always assumed that she was a woman who would react to infidelity with tearful insults – by burning all of his clothes and marching out of the house, never to return. That is what her pride had always told her. But, faced with the reality of scandal and the possibility of a future completely devoid of companionship, Eleanor had balked at walking away. That first time, when Harold had tearfully confessed to an indiscretion with one of his co-workers, she had not yelled. She had not walked out.

"You made a mistake," she had said, never feeling more distant from her husband then she did on that couch. "Let's not destroy our family over it."

Harold had loved her, in his own way. And he loved Blair without qualification, in that absent-minded, extravagant way of his. So he had fervently agreed with her, kissing her on the cheek. She had known, then, that the chaste kiss he bestowed on her then marked the end of passion in her life. Whatever they had transmuted into, there would be none of the physical love that had been surprisingly plentiful until this point. Harold had changed irrevocably, changed forever. Having tasted true passion, he would never again look at his deserted wife with anything other than fondness. A string of indiscretions followed – she was morbidly fascinated by each of them. But she didn't ever yell. Even that very first time.

She had, however, cried silently with her back pressed against the door as an eight-year old Blair had screamed in delight while playing with her beloved father.

The terrifying part was that Eleanor knew that she would have played her role forever; work was some comfort. And during the festive season especially, her little family still gleamed with perfection. So, when Harold had finally sat her down to tell her that he was leaving, she was shocked, even though she knew better than anyone that he had a secret life.

"But I thought we had an understanding," Eleanor had protested flatly, as if haggling over the price of those elegant sheafs of fabric she had spread over the bed they had once shared.

Harold had fixed her with a heartbroken look. "This isn't like the others; he's the love of my life."

"And here I thought that was me," she said dispiritedly as he cocked his head to the side and looked at her with the utmost sympathy, but without any inclination to change his mind.

And who was she to begrudge him?

The passage of time had been hard for her; the knowledge that she had missed the opportunity to find a true soul mate had hardened her. Forced to accept the fact that no one would be willing to fill that gap, she instead focussed all her energy on masking it: on becoming enough-for-two. She had tried to provide Blair with the knowledge that men would disappoint her, that she must never trust them. Because that was the only way her daughter would survive – and had been the only way that Eleanor had passed through the scandal largely unscathed.

She had always been better at lying than most. Faced with the scandalized faces of her friends at brunch, they couldn't hide her scepticism. "You really had no idea?"

Eleanor recalled those frantic nights of accumulating as much knowledge about the string of men her husband had dalliances with as possible. Eleanor knew that honesty would make her seem pathetic. Opening her eyes wide, affecting a sagging grimace, she raised her hand to her forehead and said, "I honestly had no idea. I can't believe it. You'd think that just once men would accidentally stumble onto the truth!"

They had agreed fervently and handed her the phone numbers of their various plastic surgeons.

Presently, Eleanor shook her head at Cyrus. "And the fact that she'd lie in the message – saying she was sleeping over with Serena, when I know she's with that miscreant boy…" With a shuddering breath she covered her eyes with her hand. "Although I suppose it makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, Nate was such an angel – and Blair is eighteen. Seems about time for a Chuck Bass, doesn't it?" [1]

Cyrus couldn't hide the fondness in his eyes as he watched Eleanor's theatrics. It might have been more appropriate for him not to comment at all; an issue between mother and daughter. But one of Cyrus's most defining features had always been his willingness to wade hip-deep into other people's business. And even though he knew that his wife was at times acerbic to others, she was trying, in her own way, to fiercely advance Blair's interests.

"Eleanor," he said reasonably. "I think that Blair really cares for this boy."

She snorted. "Blair is eighteen years old – she doesn't know what she cares for."

"It didn't feel that way at eighteen, did it?"

Eleanor unwillingly conceded his point. "But I _know_ how this ends. I have seen this so many times. He will tire of her, move on to someone new and she will be devastated. And what's worse – she'll be so tainted by association that she'll be forced to move to a convent outside of Cinque Terre just to escape the scandal of it."

Cyrus laughed. "Surely he can't be that bad…"

His wife glared at him. "When Chuck Bass was fifteen years old, Harold discovered him in a back room of Blair's birthday party tied to a column – _naked_ – while two women ravished him dressed in prison warden costumes."

"Was it a costume party?"

"No," Eleanor said emphatically, lamenting Cyrus's good humour as he chuckled.

"Well…youthful indiscretions aside…"

Frustrated, Eleanor held up her hand to list Chuck's many faults. "When he was seventeen, an emergency PTA meeting was called when Chuck Bass had the swimming pool at their school filled with cement. He got an exchange student form Sweden arrested by putting out an alert on Interpol after she rejected his advances. He's been arrested more times than OJ Simpson –I have _personally_ confiscated drugs from him. And these are just the indiscretions I know about."

"Never underestimate the impact that losing a parent has on the maturing process," Cyrus interrupted.

But Eleanor was having none of it. "At one of Bart's functions, he told me that he was sorry that Harold turned out to be gay, and that if I would be needing any physical comfort during my time of need, he would be happy to oblige. He is the very definition of 'inappropriate' and we should have "not up to Blair's standard" tattooed to his forehead."

"All done?" Cyrus smiled. "Maybe you're right. You're Blair's mother and you know her better than anyone. But even from my limited experience, I'd say that Blair is fairly stubborn. Don't you think that a more if-you-can't-beat-em-join-em approach may be more appropriate?"

"What do you mean?"

Cyrus shrugged, taking a generous bite of his toast. "I mean get to know him, keep him where we can see him. Let him know that if he hurts Blair he will have us to answer to - "

"He'll also have to answer to the gang members I hire to beat him senseless," Eleanor muttered.

" – and then Blair will be more likely to actually come to you if things are getting out of control. Alienate her now, and she'll just hide more from you."

Eleanor had to admit that what he had said made sense. Contemplating his advice, Eleanor allowed nibbled on her fruit salad. Although utterly convinced that Chuck Bass was the very last person that her daughter should be dating – the adage 'lie with dogs and get up with fleas' sprang to mind – she knew that Blair was obstinate. Nodding to herself, Eleanor decided to heed her husband's advice.

_Husband_.

With a small smile, Eleanor passed Cyrus the newspaper and allowed herself to enjoy the gentle polishing of a domestic routine.

* * *

"Chuck," Blair complained. "At this rate we'll never get to class."

"This is me caring," he murmured into her neck. "And this is me right now."

"You know, that only works if you actually make some kind of gesture."

Blair found herself blissfully distracted by his hands riding up her skirt and the attention he was lavishing upon her neck.

"I know," he whispered in that small voice she loved to hear pressed against the skin of her neck, her stomach. "But my hands are busy at the moment."

"Point taken," she said, manoeuvring herself so that she sat on his lap, facing him. There really was something about the limo.

It was so tempting to change hue of the memory, now that so much had passed between them. She wished that she could call that night a moment of fate: that she had merely realized existing feelings for him after that intoxicating evening of dancing for him. Of course, in reality there had been no hint of the love that caused her to ache now as his hands travelled across the well-known plane of her skin.

If she were honest with herself, she was convinced that their first time together had interrupted the proper march of fate. It had been a moment of personal choice – one that had teetered between reality and potential, until she had made her decision.

It would have been so easy to keep that gulf between them, as she leant her head against the window of his luxurious car. With each inch of upholstery that she covered, propelling herself to him, she had known that she was working against the pull of destiny. This was just Blair and Chuck and a moment that would change everything.

Even after she had kissed him, she had been certain that it would end there. A passionate kiss shared between old friends that they would feel awkward about until it had receded to the distant recesses of their history. Something that people would be surprised to learn about in the years to come: something that had not amounted to anything.

It was not until that searing moment when he had asked, "you sure?" that she realized just how significant tonight could be.

Two things had struck her almost simultaneously: the first was the shock that Chuck imagined that she would have sex with him, because that was clearly what his question was directed at. Until that moment, the possibility of sex with Chuck Bass had been no more than an idle fantasy. He was, after all, the village bicycle – everyone had had a ride. And at a time when she had been utterly unschooled in the ways of sex, he had seemed to be the embodiment of it. The unapologetic way he teased her with descriptions of the sticky, heated scenes he had shared with any number of women enthralled and disgusted her. They stayed with her and formed the substance of her pondering about the "whole sex thing".

The second thought followed so soon after, that even at the time Blair had been surprised.

_Why not?_

That had been her thought. Why shouldn't she let Chuck act on those inconsequential moments that had passed between them over the years? Why shouldn't she just let him open her world to these things that she had never experienced? There was a slight thrill at the fact he had asked her – it made her feel sexy to think that this new activity was available to her. It made her feel grown up.

So she had kissed him again, curious and strangely flattered. She never answered his question; she was not at all sure. In fact, it would have been impossible for her to be sure about what she was doing. This was new to her.

And at first it had been simple; it was nothing that she and Nate hadn't been doing for years. She had even grown to consider herself good at it: she straddled him, kissing him with a fervour that surprised even her.

Vaguely remembering a thought she had once had about him – that with Chuck, you could say and do anything without embarrassment – Blair experimented with the boundaries of her newfound identity.

"I want you to fuck me," she said into his ear.

She would never forget the look on his face. When he's pulled back, she had been mortified that the words had sounded wrong from her. Even in her sexy negligee, after her uncharacteristic striptease she felt certain that her mask had fallen and that he would see that she was nothing more than a silly little girl trying to play grown up.

But his face had registered something different entirely. They looked up at her, as her arms wrapped around his neck, and she realized suddenly that he wanted her desperately. That this phrase from him lips was enough to drive him mad with the passion of it.

"_Yes,_" he whispered.

And he pushed her onto her back.

It was then that she forgot about the voices in her head, the niggling doubts – the sense that this was quite simply not happening. Because Chuck's kisses were fervent, and his hands were so sure that she didn't doubt their passage over her skin. And from the moment that his hands slipped under her silky dress and into her underpants, she had been addicted to this burning, insatiable need for him.

It was as if he had flung open a door in her brain: and the only voice that called out from inside said his name.

With an intensity that surprised her, he asked her, "Do you want me to fuck you?"

The worshipful way he gazed at her body, at odds with the smutty words that fell from his mouth was too much for her, and she gasped pitifully, "Yes."

"Say it again."

And so she said it over and over, as his mouth and hands roamed over her naked, as he teasingly refused to give her this primordial release that she wanted so desperately. And so began their battle of the wills as she ran her hands over his body, searching for any weak spot, any chink in the armour that would compel him to give her what she sought.

It had been surprising, the electricity between them. Until that point, Blair had never known herself to be passionate. The palpable electricity had lasted until those final moments of release, when he had collapsed next to her and she had awkwardly pulled on her slip. He had followed suit, feeling foolish being the only one naked. She had been determined to appear as cosmopolitan as he was: she didn't want him to feel obligated to hold her, while his mind ticked over onto other things.

Ironically, all he had wanted was for her to lie there with him, naked and unashamed. But, even at this point in their relationship, the desire never to be the weaker party was too strong to ignore.

Presently, she was amused to notice the muted struggle for dominance continued; they were constantly seeking new ways to give each other pleasure and then put it off.

The first time had been passionate, yes, Blair mused. But there had been no thought of love. The day after, there was merely a newfound air of knowingness and a hint of embarrassment that she had lost the elevated status of the untouchable with him. Until, that is, he appeared at her birthday party and the embarrassment stopped being based on what Chuck thought of her and began to focus on what others would think of her for her dalliances with Chuck.

That had been the worst part of her mother's diatribe the day before; it was nothing that Blair herself hadn't thought.

"Are you nervous?" He said gently.

Blair shrugged, slightly embarrassed. "A little."

"Me too," he admitted.

She stared through the tinted windows at the thronging crowd. Which one of them would be the next in a line of enemies that seemed determined to spoil the precious moments she shared with Chuck? Which one of them would be the one to offer a harsh word that would scare him away from her – that would make her doubt him? It had always been that way.

"Come on," Chuck said gently. "Let's get this over with."

"What's our approach?"

Chuck smirked. "We shock them – just once. Then it's one day of gossip, with none of the speculation."

"As if sex in the library wasn't public enough," Blair muttered.

Avoiding her eyes, Chuck smiled to himself at the memory. "Don't worry, I won't take it too far."

With that, he opened the door to the limo and the last vestiges of their private cocoon were broken.

* * *

"Are they always so…shiny?" Vanessa asked as she leant against the wrought iron gate that led to St Jude's, and hopefully to her recalcitrant boyfriend, who had been screening her calls.

"Yes," Dan confirmed. "They are always this shiny. It draws attention away from the silver spoons wedged in their mouths."

Vanessa snorted. She had called Nate at home and had been assured by his mother that he would indeed be at school today. Although she knew that the Captain needed the support of family, there was something grotesque about forcing Nate to watch the entire spectacle unfold: especially when he so obviously blamed himself for everything that had happened.

"He's late," Dan offered, needlessly.

"Yes, thank you. I noticed."

"Maybe he caught sight of his reflection and couldn't tear his eyes away," Dan dead-panned.

In spite of herself, Vanessa allowed a hint of a smile to spread across her face. "Maybe someone messed up his hair."

"All those wasted hours in front of pictures of Zac Efron…"

"Getting it to fall just right," Vanessa was grinning now.

"Even when he's jogging – what's up with that?"

Vanessa shrugged, "If you owned three types of hair gel, your hair wouldn't move either."

"Hair wax," Serena contributed, appearing from nowhere and wrapping her arms around Dan's waist, pecking him on the cheek. "He's corrected me more than once. How are you doing, V?"

Vanessa grimaced. "Other than being a courtroom widow, I'm fine."

Serena smiled sympathetically. "Give him time."

"He should be coming in to school today," Vanessa said, searching the crowd while attempting to be nonchalant.

"I don't see why he'd bother," Serena pouted. "This place is dead – even Blair's gang seem to have accepted that high school is all but over. Nothing seems to cause a stir anymore…_Oh._"

Vanessa and Dan followed her line of vision. A wry smile broke out on Vanessa's face as Dan groaned. "Yeah. I think they might find something to talk about today."

"Ugh," Dan moaned. "Can someone please blind me?"

"I think it's sweet," Serena commented, cocking her head. "As long as they stay over there and not…you know…on my bed."

The scene unfolding at the school gate seemed to have caught the entire school's notice. Vanessa looked around at those students that she had called 'shiny' and marvelled at their shocked expressions.

Because the scandalous, shocking act that had caused half of the school to pull out camera phones was nothing more than Chuck taking Blair's hand and leading her towards their little group.

She heard the hissing murmurs of Constance and St Jude's shocked body polick: "Unless that hand-holding becomes a hand-job, I am pretty sure that is some kind of impostor". It must be some kind of android etiquette, Vanessa mused. The UES requirement that no one show any affection. But, she knew that Serena and Dan often showed each other physical affection, and it never caused anything near the disturbance that she saw before her.

Confused, Vanessa turned to Serena. "Um, okay, am I missing something?"

Serena smiled at her. "You'd have to know Chuck's reputation a little better…"

"Basically," Dan contributed sarcastically. "Our peers would be less shocked by Chuck Bass getting completely naked and having a gang-bang on the hood of his limo than seeing him holding someone's hand."

The stir that Chuck and Blair were causing confirmed what Vanessa had always suspected: before Blair, Chuck Bass really had been the worst kind of slut.

"A whole new chapter," Vanessa said thoughtfully

Vanessa scrutinized the pair as they walked over. She couldn't quite identify why it seemed so intimate; she had seen other people hold hands, but seeing Blair and Chuck with hands entwined was of a different class entirely. There was something in their strides that exuded intimacy.

Vanessa wondered what had happened - whether they had finally stumbled into compromise. She wondered what it would have taken for the pair of them to find a way to be together. Such stubborn people, proud and independent, neither of them could stand to look away from the other. She smiled at something he said and he laughed at her response as they walked in sync to their friends.

"Well, well, well. Don't you two seem well," Serena said with a wide grin and barely contained innuendo.

Chuck rolled his eyes. "We seem "well"? Isn't that that's something you should only say to old people. And I for one am young and vigorous."

"I feel like we should make you jump over something," Blair mocked softly.

"I can think of other ways to demonstrate my vigour," Chuck said, leaning into her ear, as if momentarily forgetting that the rest of them were there. He kissed her just below the ear lobe.

"Is this what you meant by promising you wouldn't take things too far in public," Blair said, pushing him away playfully. Chuck wouldn't have a bar of it, and instead wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"You're still wearing all your clothes, Waldorf. I'd say that I'm keeping it under control."

Dan cleared his throat. "Hi, remember us? We're the ones who are going to need therapy if you keep this up."

"You're going to need more than therapy if you don't shut up," Chuck said sourly.

Vanessa noticed all the aggression drain form Chuck's face. Glancing down at the arms that were wrapped around Blair's stomach, Vanessa noticed that she was gently stroking his hands. With nothing more than a hand stroke, Blair had knocked the wind from Chuck's lungs. Vanessa knew that Chuck's childhood had lacked any degree of affection and that even now, as he froze under Blair's stroking hand, she could sense that he was straining to resist the urge to push her away.

And Blair knew it. Vanessa was certain that this insecure, self-involved girl knew about the damaged terrain of Chuck's brain, almost as much as she knew that it was affection that he needed. Although Vanessa's affection for Chuck had only increased over the last few months, she had not been entirely sure about Blair. They had made only the slightest progress towards friendship. But if Vanessa had harboured any doubts about Blair's feelings towards Chuck, they were assuaged when, without a word, Blair looked up at Chuck's frozen face and gave him the most genuine, melting smile that Vanessa had ever seen. With that smile, Chuck's doubting eyes cleared and his shoulders relaxed.

All at once it was too much to watch. Vanessa found even her prying, director's eye looking away. Serena sighed and rested her head on her boyfriend's shoulder. Even Dan had a half smile on his face.

Chuck and Blair noticed none of it.

They had gotten more fascinating since she had last seen them. And for a moment she forgot about Nate. Perhaps if her mind hadn't been so distracted she would have noticed Nate standing down the road, watching Chuck and Blair with an inscrutable look on his face, before he turned around and walked away.

* * *

It was around mid-morning when Serena finally found herself alone with Blair in the girl's bathrooms. It had always amused her how hard Blair seemed to focus when she was in front of the mirror, catching every flaw, polishing every surface. But today Blair laughed at her gleaming hair, mussed from the journey to school and the fact she hadn't had time to curl it when she and Chuck slipped out of the Palace.

"I look like Sasquatch."

Serena sat on the small step, where the light battled with shadows for dominance. With a small smile, gazing at her friend through the warm sunlight, Serena shook her head, "You've never looked more beautiful, B."

"Oh please – I look disgusting."

"You look like you're in love," Serena blurted out.

Blair frowned into the mirror. With a thoughtful look on her face, she read her expression in the mirror. "You know, I think you're right."

Serena pulled her knees to her chin and gazed and Blair dreamily. "I don't know whether to puke of hug you?"

Scrunching up her nose, Blair rolled her eyes. "Try not to get anything on me."

"What happened?"

Blair stared into the mirror at Serena. Once she might have gloated about the romantic things that Chuck had said to her. Once she may have butchered the scene between them to create fodder for her friends. But those raw moments that had passed over the last hours, weeks, months were too personal. But now it seemed too personal and she guarded the memories jealously. Also, she could only begin to imagine the grief Chuck was being given in St Jude's for his display of affection this morning.

With a mysterious smile, Blair shrugged. "What can I say? He's incredibly good in bed."

"Ew," Serena laughed. "Overshare."

Serena tried not to feel hurt that Blair wouldn't confide in her exactly what had happened. Perhaps they were getting too old for this: this incessant, hours-on-the-phone sharing. Maybe as they grew older they would talk less and less about those giggly topics that they had always discussed ad nauseum. It was probably a natural progression.

She had been staring at her toes for a few minutes, and when she looked up she saw that Blair was regarding her with the gentle face she reserved for those closest to her. Serena's face had always been as open: it was a wide plane that gave away her every thought. She sat next to Serena on the step, all thought of masking what was happening between her and Chuck gone from her thoughts. It was not leverage, it was not revenge, she didn't want to make Serena jealous.

"Nate showed up at my house last night," Blair explained, staring dreamily into the distance. "Apologising for how he had been acting. He was convinced that Chuck wouldn't forgive him. And at some point – I didn't even see it happen – Chuck put that _Alice In Wonderland_ book on my hall table. And in the cover he wrote…" Blair shook her head as Serena swallowed a lump of – envy? Happiness? She didn't know.

"What did it say?"

Blair shook her head. "I nearly didn't read it. I nearly threw it out. I thought that he was being cruel, giving back the present I had given him. How could I not assume it was a game? But then – S, I don't know what it was. I just knew that if I threw it away it would be over between us. So, I opened it. And it said…it said that I was braver than him, because I had told him that I loved him out loud. It said that he wasn't good with words, but that he just wanted to say there words to empty space, I suppose, just because…"

It was definitely envy, Serena decided guiltily. But the much larger part of her was thrilled for Blair, who seemed so vulnerable next to her. "Because?"

"Because they were true. That's what – he said that he wanted to say them because they're true. Even if they don't fix anything. And then he said…he said that he more than loves me and won't ever stop loving me and that even if I never speak to him again I'll always have his heart," she finished in a rush.

The friends let silence wash over them for a while. Blair was verging on tears, remembering the unbelieving way she had read those words, certain she had cracked, that the letter was a pathetic dream. For her part, Serena tried to remember whether there had been any moment in her life that had come close to being as romantic as what Chuck – _Chuck_ of all people – had done for Blair.

"So you went to see him?"

Blair nodded. "I asked him if it was true – all of it. I was convinced this was some kind of joke. I really was S. I spent half the time reading it trying to figure out the punch-line. I honestly didn't think he would say it to my face. But then, he did – and he was useless at saying it," Blair grinned. "He fumbled around for about twenty minutes while I waited for him to ravish me. But when he finally figured out how to put the words in a sentence. It was…"

Blair offered Serena another radiant smile – and Serena felt the frostiness of her envy fade away. It was reassuring to feel herself be so unselfish. It was a mark of how far she had come since her departure from New York, years ago now. "It was amazing?"

Blair nodded fervently. "It was something else. Hearing him say it. I never thought…I mean it's Chuck. I never thought he'd be able to say it."

"I can't believe I'm going to say this about Chuck," Serena said, dumbfounded. "But that is incredibly sweet. B – what's wrong?"

"I don't know," Blair said quietly. "I just can't stop thinking that there is some sort of irony at work."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I can't shake the feeling that this will end up being the cruellest thing that we've ever done to each other."

Serena was confused. "What do you mean?"

"We just became each other's greatest weak spots. And have you ever met anyone as good as me or Chuck at going at the weak spots?"

It was true, Serena supposed. But she didn't want to say it aloud. She pulled an arm around Blair's shoulders and marvelled at her friend's capacity to torture herself. As envious as she may have been over Chuck's profession of love, and the sweet way had had found to do it, Serena knew that she was not made for the torturous self-destructiveness that would define Chuck and Blair's relationship.

Scared for her friend, Serena sat with her arm around Blair until the bell rang and it was time to step once more into the rippling tide of the school day.

* * *

"So, you and Blair," Dan said, suddenly, as he and Chuck washed their hands in the bathroom.

"Me and Blair, what?" Chuck said archly.

"You're, you know," Dan wagged his finger in a complex pattern in the air near Chuck's nose. "On again."

"Yes," Chuck said, wondering how it was that Dan hoped to be a writer when he expressed himself as if he had just received a blow on the head with a blunt instrument.

Dan nodded once. "Right. Good then."

Pleasantries dispensed with, they returned to the quiet companionship of two old enemies who cannot admit that they were slowly becoming friends.

* * *

Nate knew that it must have been over a year ago now – when Serena had disappeared, only to leave a vast open space in their once perfectly balanced group. Blair's father had left for France amid a flurry of scandal that had left Eleanor devastated and Blair obstinately silent.

They were in the Hamptons: going through the motions of day-to-day life that had changed so irrevocably with the sudden absence of the golden-haired girl who had always brought out the wildest sides of Nate's personality, without the tinge of danger that usually came with his time spent with Chuck. Serena allowed him to be silly. And even though the laughter and playfulness – not to mention the sheer inebriation – that seemed to come over Nate when Serena was around would make the sides of Blair's mouth drag down into a frown, Nate couldn't help himself. Serena was a frenzy as fleeting as a gust of wind – and Nate loved to feel airborne.

Of course, those heady days had passed, and there was merely an uneven triangle remaining: Nate, the girlfriend that Nate had betrayed, and Chuck, the best friend he had never truly understood.

With all of the drama that had been shaking the foundations of Blair's life, Nate found that they had fallen into a pattern that was inescapable. Blair would be sullen, silent, until she would hint darkly at the feelings that were boiling inside of her. Nate would hear the hints, would know that Blair wanted desperately for him to find a way to bridge the vast gap between them. And he would just sit there. She probably thought that he was oblivious to her pain, but that wasn't true. Nate was all too aware of the roiling agony that Blair went through when the perfection of her life was tarnished. But after everything that had transpired with Serena, he was too exhausted to reach out a hand to her.

And what was worse, he was almost certain that Chuck knew.

He was almost certain, because Chuck would never say things explicitly. It was more his way to hint darkly, but to hold back until the moment when the information would be the most useful to him.

There had been hints though. Of course Chuck had hinted that he knew there to be a stain on Nate's perfect record. It was in the slightest detail. Chuck would be pulling on a smoking jacket in his suite, admiring his reflection, when out of nowhere he would ask about Harold Waldorf leaving Eleanor. He would wait until Nate's head was fuzzy with the force of marijuana or scotch and then he would ask the question that Nate had begun to dread.

"How's Blair?"

He heard it from his parents at least ten times per day. He was sick to death at having to offer the same, tooth-gritted answer that he always gave. "Fine," he'd intone.

And Chuck would be so mock-disbelieving when he would say. "Right – I'm sure."

"She's doing okay, Chuck."

"I think it's fairly clear that's bullshit," Chuck would say, rolling his eyes, as if he was the only one who saw Blair clearly. "Or are you just trying not to betray her girlfriend-ly confidences?"

At that point, Nate would grit his teeth at the unsubtle reminder that Blair would not tell him anything. Other times, it was a subtle dig at his illicit tryst with Serena. Chuck would ostensibly be talking about his own latest sexual encounter, and Nate would be grinning at his friend's degenerate ways, when Chuck would affix him with a suddenly serious look.

"Of course, that's the most intoxicating thing," he's say solemnly. "The forbidden fruit. One longs to…pluck it. Wouldn't you agree Nathaniel?"

And Nate's head would be spinning with the images of blonde hair tickling his bare chest and the frenzied removal of clothes from golden skin. "I suppose," he'd grunt, at which point, Chuck would smirk at him and return to whatever it was that they were discussing.

They had been drinking in the coach house of Nate's palatial Hampton's house, with Chuck and Nate sharing a joint and Blair sitting silently on an armchair, staring out of the glass doors and at the sand-dune that sloped down, out of view until it reached the water.

The dynamic had been off all weekend. Although it was easy to hide at parties with their classmates at the various summer-houses that dotted the foreshore, Nate knew that in those moments when it was just the three of them, something was wrong.

Chuck had been casting surreptitious glances at Blair all evening, preternaturally aware of every mood fluctuation. Nate was relieved to have someone else tending to her mood; he had been so woefully deficient in that area, and Chuck had always been good at distracting her with outrageous comments and Machiavellian schemes. With Chuck and Blair snarking at each other, it would be possible for Nate to just relax and focus on the music and the feeling of the dope relaxing his muscles.

"I think I was definitely in with a shot with that Harvard girl," Chuck mused. "She seemed…flexible."

"Pfft," Blair said suddenly from her armchair.

Chuck moved his eyes to her in mock-horror. Her legs were curled up underneath her and one hand played with the strap of bikini underneath her summer dress. Nate may not have been paying much attention, but he was aware that Chuck had been surreptitiously directing his lewd comments towards Blair, trying to shake her out of her reverie.

"You disagree Waldorf? Or is the grunting just the latest manifestation of your buzz-kill behaviour?"

"Please," Blair scoffed, her eyes focusing for the first time that evening. "You had no chance with that girl."

Chuck always became more animated when sparring with Blair. He tapped his Havana hat slightly and bounced his leg up and down in anticipation. Nate closed his eyes, allowing their conversation to wash over her. There would be no need to watch her cheeks fill with blood, to see his deft ability to rile her up, to intervene before the whole scene came to blows. Instead he would be able to just sit, with darkness before his eyes, and imagine leaning his head against a train window as he left this place, the city, or the country. To finally find freedom and to hold onto it with both hands, far from his mother's propriety, Blair's depression, and the constant pressures of acting perfect, when the reality of his flaws were driving him insane.

"Please, she so obviously wanted me. College girls are all about the mind expanding experiences."

"And how, precisely would catching gonorrhea be a mind expanding experience?"

"I know you're a bit sketchy on the sex-ed thing, but it's called a condom."

"And I know that your sketchy on the whole reality thing, but there is no way that a college girl – even one from Harvard – would be interested in an infant like you."

"You know, now you mention it," Nate could hear the grin in Chuck's voice without seeing his face. "I really am more of an Eli fan. Bulldogs, Bulldogs, Go, Go, Go is more than just fight cry – said in the throes of passion, it really could be something - "

Blair gasped. "Why would you bring _Yale_ into your sick fantasies?"

"Because I'm suddenly thinking a lot about going – then you can have a front-row seat as I go through my fresher fifteen."

"As if Yale would ever take you. Elis don't wear hats inside for a start." Nate could have sworn that there was a teasing note in her voice.

"Oh really? Are you suggesting we take this outside, Waldorf?"

"Wait – wait – No! _Chuck_ let go of me. Nate, help me!"

Nate finally opened his eyes to find Chuck throwing her over his shoulder and throwing open the door to the sand-dune before stepping out into the night. Turning around to grin at Nate, Chuck raised an eyebrow. "Nathaniel – care to join us? We have a Waldorf to douse."

Nate sat for a moment, thrown by the visual of Chuck with Blair over his shoulder. He could have sworn that Chuck seemed a little wistful, and although all he could see of Blair was her kicking legs, he had the suspicion that Blair would have liked nothing more than for him to protest, to grab her himself and to run outside as Chuck had suggested.

It was suddenly hard to swallow. Nate realized with a jolt that all he wanted was to stay inside. All he wanted was to shake his head at Chuck, to let them run outside, and to close the door after them. But he knew that he would ruin this momentary light mood if he didn't get to his feet and play along. If he didn't come, Blair would lose interest, Chuck's mood would be spoilt – and the whole evening would fall once more into that desultory silence that had made them all so uncomfortable the night before. So, summoning all the restraint that his years of self-denial had taught him, Nate grinned at Chuck.

"Oh I would not miss this," Nate forced himself to enthuse.

"Traitor!" Blair yelled, with a hint of a smile in her voice.

As Chuck ran out ahead, with his screaming package in his arms, Nate paused to watch on the top of the sand dune. There was a slight breeze, which rustled the tips of those resilient green stalks that managed to grow in the inhospitable sand. With a sense of detachment, he watched as Chuck let Blair down, chasing her around the deserted beach. In a moment, he would join them, and Blair's shrill laughter would fill the air.

But now, she was distracted – enjoying herself for the first time since they had arrived for their dreary holiday. And Nate found himself wondering what would happen if this beach were entirely deserted except for Chuck and Blair. He wondered what would happen to their now lopsided group of friends if he simply disappeared.

Blair had stolen Chuck's hat and he was swearing with abandon as he came up behind her to grab it.

"Nathaniel – come down here and control your woman," Chuck's voice was thin and distant as it reached his ears up on the hill.

What would happen if he were suddenly not around? What would happen if he left without the slightest hint to his friends? If he chased Serena – if he left Blair with no one but Chuck, possibly. For all intents and purposes, they were alone right now, and Blair was screeching with glee.

Of course, Nate didn't fool himself. He knew that she would be furious with him, that Chuck would be lost without his best friend, who bailed him out of jail and who kept him from truly losing himself in the darkness that was at best kept at arm's length in the damaged boy. And although Nate longed so desperately to be alone, to find a place where he was no one but who he decided to be when he woke up in the morning, he was not ready to face the consequences of throwing everything away.

So he sighed to himself, leaving the ethereal Serena who danced next to him, laughing that ridiculous laugh of hers, tempting him to run from here – and instead went to where he belonged.

Presently, Nate shook his head at the way things had changed between then and now. He knew better than anyone the significance of Chuck's hand in Blair's – his willingness to be seen as a member of a couple. And it made him wonder whether it hadn't always been this way, whether the balance of their friends had always been made possible by this perfect symmetry that they had had. There was Nate and Chuck, Serena and Blair – best friends. There was the pairing of Nate and Serena, as dreamers, and Chuck and Blair as co-conspirators. It had even been balanced by their very appearance: Nate and Serena were light and fickle sunlight and Chuck and Blair were the mournful darkness of space that never ended, only changing according to their proximity to light.

Now the symmetry had shifted, so that there was nothing else but Chuck and Blair: two ends of a galaxy pulling towards each other.

And Nate was alone. He knew that soon enough he would lose everyone: his father, his mother, when she finally realized that the man she loved was lost to her, probably Vanessa – and Serena and Dan would follow her.

Sitting at yet another bar, Nate sipped his drink and wondered what he would do. He could latch onto Chuck and Blair, he supposed. But the brutal force of their feelings for each other would be too much to withstand. They would come first for each other now.

Melancholy settling over him, Nate imagined himself once more on that orange train as the terrain flew by. Perhaps now the time had come to run away. He would need to speak to Vanessa, he knew. But once that had been taken care of, he could go anywhere. And he wondered whether he had the nerve.

With a final, burning sip of liquor, Nate pulled himself up, still churning with those impulses that were pulling him in so many different directions. First, he should find Vanessa. But, as he made his way to the exit of the bar, he saw the last person he expected, slumped in a both under a picture of a geezer rock band, with a look of sadness so deeply ingrained in her face that Nate almost didn't recognize her.

But then the light shifted, and the golden hair picked up a familiar gleam, and he knew that he was seeing the most unlikely sight he could imagine.

Lily Van Der Woodsen, by herself and completely paralytic in a bar.

* * *

He had taken her by surprise when he had grabbed her around the middle and pulled her away from her locker shortly before lunchtime.

"Chuck?"

"Who else were you expecting?"

She grinned, biting her lips as his kissed the back of her neck. "My other lover, Horatio."

He growled into her neck, pinning her against the wall. "What kind of name is Horatio?"

They arrived at Chuck's intended destination; he had dragged her out of the school doors and pulled her into a cosy nook next to the main stairs of the school.

Blair's eyes fluttered closed as his hands ran down her sides and snuck under the side of her skirt, shamelessly groping her as the lunch hour bell sounded. In a few minutes, their peers would pour out of the building and they would be discovered. But now, they were blissfully alone in the warm breeze with their hands grasping desperately for bare skin.

"It's a very common name in the Brazilian Cabana boy community," she drawled as she tugged at the collar of his shirt, nipping his shoulder slightly.

"I see," he said, his hands now unapologetically roaming under her skirt. "Let's see if I can drive all thoughts of Horatio out of your mind…"

Blair's eyes opened lazily over his shoulder as his hands all but lifted her up in an attempt to get closer to her, and his head correspondingly travelled down her neck and to her collarbone. She idly noticed a scandalized woman walking passed the school, tutting and shaking her head at the sight of their impudence. With a start, Blair realized that she couldn't care less. She was truly, irrevocably drunk with Chuck.

She shuddered to think how far she would have allowed him to go there, in the public eye, had the doors to Constance and St Jude's not opened to reveal the two-hundred-odd students they had been at school with for the last three years, and in most cases, long before. With the ghost of a grin, Blair noticed that Chuck was not in the least fazed by their growing audience.

"Chuck – _Chuck_," Blair said, reluctantly pulling away.

"What?"

"People…watching…"

"So what?" He said with a grin. "We did the relationship thing for the masses in the morning. Now it's our chance to show the guys that I may be a Relationship Guy, but I still have the hottest sex life in New York."

Blair frowned. "Have they been giving you a hard time as well?"

"No," Chuck responded, surprised enough to pull back from her delicious lips for a moment. "What have they been saying to you?"

She smiled at his suddenly serious countenance. Cupping his cheek with her hand she rolled her eyes. "Oh you know – just putting odds on how long it will last. You'll be happy to know that odds are we'll survive Penelope's party on Friday. That's a relief, don't you think?"

Chuck stepped back, eyes burning into hers. "They're betting on us?"

Surprised, Blair nodded slightly. "It's no big deal Chuck – I don't care what they all think."

He shook his head, stepping back and all but muttering to himself. "They all think I'm going to fuck it up, don't they?"

With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Blair knew that she had been stupid to tell him, knew that he would take it too seriously. So used to being derided and doubted in his childhood, he had an almost obsessive conviction that at any moment he would drop everything – that all of it would be taken away. And when had Chuck ever had so much to lose? With a start, Blair realized that he couldn't believe his good luck – that he actually couldn't comprehend the fact that she wanted him, that somewhere along the way he had become more important to her than her status as Queen B. Now she was standing there as he paced back and force in a tiny pattern before her: their classmates sending them curious looks.

"Chuck, listen to me," she said, grabbing hold of his arm to steady him, trying to be his one stable point. "I don't care what they say. They don't know you like I know you. They don't know us like we know us. They don't know anything. So whatever they're saying, all that matters to me is how we feel about each other."

He looked all of five years old as he stood before her: vulnerable, desperate to believe but terrified that the rug was about to be pulled out from under him. It seemed that he would never truly believe that she was willing to be associated with him. "You aren't worried about us? I mean – about me?"

Sometimes the only thing to do is to lie. Blair had learnt that with Chuck, it was best to focus only on that part of her that had faith in him, a part which grew stronger, but which could never drown out those niggling fears she had. "I trust you. I don't care what anyone says."

He nodded seriously, a sly smile replacing his tormented expression. "Do you not care about other people's opinion enough to have sex with me right here?"

"In your dreams, Bass."

"You bet."

* * *

Lily's eyes were all but closed as Nate dragged her across the threshold into her apartment. She had been babbling for a while about what that dive bar had been like when she was young and in love with the hedonism of the New York music scene. Nate had heard a few glancing stories about Lily's mysterious life in that time – a photojournalist for _Rolling Stone_, who daily interacted (and by all accounts, did a whole lot more than that) with the worst type of decadents. Or so Anne Archibald said with that purse-lipped disapproval that had faded form her face the day she found out that her husband was to dragged up before the masses to be torn asunder, piece by piece. Now she was little more than living ghost.

And it seemed that Lily had slipped away, right in their field of view; everyone was too fixated upon their own lives to give her much thought.

"Come on, Lily – let's get you home."

The woman had fixed her wide, desperate eyes on him – a mirror of her daughters – and had shaken her head in disbelief. "You must think me a fool. An old woman sitting in a bar drinking in the afternoon. What's happened to me?"

Nate grinned at her. "Drinking in the afternoon is the new black."

She had closed her eyes as Nate pulled her into the taxi he had hailed (he was pleasantly surprised that anyone had been willing to pick up a teenager with a stumbling middle aged woman). He had given the taxi driver the address and settled back against the upholstery, convinced that Lily had fallen asleep, when she finally murmured something.

"I'm sorry?"

Her eyes were closed. "Do you ever just want to escape from everything? Every mistake that you've ever made?"

Staring at her intently, even as unconsciousness threatened her. "I always thought that there was no escape. I thought that the further you ran the more things caught up with you."

She offered him a blinding smile. "Oh Nathaniel," she said dreamily. "I spent my entire adolescence running. I ran away from my mother, my friends, my schooling. I ran away from everything about myself." She laughed darkly. "I fell in love with a rock star – all in an attempt to run away. Until I slipped up. But until then the running was wonderful."

"And did it work? You know…the uh…did running away work?"

"It was the happiest time of my life," Lily said simply.

There didn't seem to be much to say until they stumbled into the apartment. The queer role reversal of Nate as adult and Lily as child was too jarring for him to process. He felt as if she should at any moment scold him for skipping school. But it didn't seem that Lily was in the mood to be a mother. Standing awkwardly as she sat on her couch, he scuffed his shoe on the marble floor.

"Is there anyone I should call? Serena…Chuck…"

"No," she said with eyes blazing. "I will not have them worrying about me. I have been trying to make sure that everything was okay for them – to make up for everything." She closed her eyes, her thoughts jumbled. "To be the mother for them I couldn't be for…"

Nate had no idea what she was talking about. But, soon enough, her eyes flew open and she looked at him desperately. "Has it worked? Are they happy?"

Biting the inside of his mouth, he felt the bile of his stomach rise. _They _were all perfectly happy, he knew. It was only Nate who was losing everything. "Yeah they're happy. They're in _love_," he said rolling his eyes.

She smiled. "Chuck's in love? With Blair?"

Nate shrugged. "Looks that way."

The news seemed to bring her great peace. She had never been able to shake the feeling that it was her fault that Bart had died, that it was her fault that Chuck had suffered through losing another parent – or whatever it was Bart had been to Chuck. It filled her with hope to know that he had somehow managed to love, that she had not messed up so irrevocably that he was damaged beyond repair. It made that gnawing guilt that had filled her, and that had made Rufus' eyes fill with disapproval and disgust when he had found out. Was it a girl or a boy?

"Thank you, Nate," she said quietly. "I think you should go now."

Nate struggled with himself for an instant. "I still think I should call Serena…"

"Leave her alone," Lily said flatly. "And thank you."

Shrugging, and straining to say something that he couldn't quite name, Nate left the penthouse.

The ungenerous part of him, which had been gaining strength in the last few weeks, was strangely elated. It seemed that underneath that veneer of perfection that covered Serena's life, at least, there was something brewing. It wasn't the hope that something would happen to eclipse his own family's scandal, but rather the feeling that soon he would not be the only one floating – lost – losing everything. Perhaps he could have some company.

Biting his lip, surprised at those little treacheries that were starting to come so easily, Nate pulled out his phone and dialled Serena.

* * *

[1] Inspired by Lorelei's comments about Jess and Rory in _Gilmore Girls_. I do love a bad boy.


	11. Chapter 11: A Customary Concern

**Chapter Eleven****: A Customary Concern for the Passage of Time**

"_There now began a time of such joyous derangement, of such exultant carelessness, that Frank Wheeler could never afterwards remember how long it lasted. It could have been a week or two weeks or more before his life began to come back into focus, with its customary concern for the passage of time and its anxious need to measure and apportion it; and by then, looking back, he was unable to tell how long it had been otherwise. The only day that would always stand clear and sharp in his memory was the first one…"_

- Richard Yates, _Revolutionary Road

* * *

_

The days passed in a frenzy, and Chuck could scarcely remember their timbre or tone as he stumbled through them in a daze. It was difficult to keep track of such inanities as the passage of time, of eating, of sleeping, even, when he was alone with Blair. When he stopped to think for a moment, it seemed that the only moment he really remembered with anything bordering on clarity was that first afternoon that he had spent with Blair – on their first official day as a couple, when she had been sitting on his bed, ostensibly doing her homework. He had climbed out of the shower, walking into his bedroom in only a towel when her eyes had fallen upon him.

She had said that they should just hang out – finish homework, fulfil their obligations to the outside world. But when her vision clouded at the sight of him all but naked, all possibility of normalcy had fled. She had all but jumped him, tearing his towel off and having her way with him.

Not that he was complaining.

"It was a mistake," Blair said suddenly, tracing patterns on his chest. "To imagine that we could have any sort of normal life while simultaneously wanting to jump each other's bones every waking minute."

"I seem to remember that it was you who jumped me this time."

"Please," she grinned quietly. "You were baiting me. Walking in here wearing nothing but a towel. What did you think was going to happen?"

"I thought you were going to control yourself."

"No chance of that with you around."

An exquisite madness had come upon them and they simply had to ride it out.

And so, apart from those miserable hours when school insisted that they sat in different rooms, they spent every waking moment together. Blair had all but moved in with the Van Der Woodsens. Lily was no more than a ghostly presence, pale and ethereal, who barely seemed to notice that Blair was spending more time with Chuck than she was with Eleanor and Cyrus. Chuck idly wondered whether Eleanor was still furious with Blair; he supposed she wouldn't be happy about their quasi-cohabitating. But Blair never mentioned any residual tension to him. Clearly, she was willing to defy her mother for the terrifying magnetism that they felt for each other.

And for his part, Chuck found that a new world was opening to him: a new kind of intimacy that was as heady and exhilarating as their extremely physical relationship. Because he was starting to learn about the fascinating parts of Blair that had been hidden from him. It was usually after sex, when they lay in each other's arms – a time when Chuck would usually be heading for the door with any other girl – that their conversations began. Halting at first, neither wanting to be the first to admit to any type of vulnerability, they had turned post-coital discussion into facet of their badinage. But it was in these conversations, although playful and seemingly frivolous, that they stumbled into honesty.

"You have to worry when your own mother thinks you're a slut," Blair would say with a lightness that belied her pain.

Chuck nuzzled her neck, always finding it easier to address her skin rather than her eyes. "It's evolution – each generation should be sluttier than the one that came before."

"Debauched Darwinism," she offered, straddling him in an attempt to win the upper hand.

"Precisely," Chuck said, sitting up to meet her halfway. With a light kiss, he wrapped her legs around his waist before rapidly changing their position so that he was once more on top of her.

"But it doesn't quite fit does it," she mused, running her hands over his bare back. "Because there isn't enough variety in the gene pool – we'd need to look for mates outside the Upper East Side."

"Slumming in Brooklyn – can't we just say that Serena is fulfilling that requirement for us?" Chuck paused contemplatively. "Although he's not so bad, is he? Humphrey I mean."

"There are elements of him that don't suck," she conceded grumpily. "Why – are you thinking of going steady with him?"

Chuck smirked. "I don't know how much Humphrey and I would contribute to the evolutionary theory though, even if it would be helpful for the commingling of our gene pools."

"I suppose it doesn't matter," Blair whispered. "You've probably single-handedly bedded our entire quota. Honestly, Bass…your sex life is like an advertisement for the United Whores of Benetton."

He knew that behind her laughter, she hated his past. She hated that he couldn't name every woman he had been with, although she'd asked him to try more than once. He had tried, but the sheer number had made her shrink away from him. As she lay there after those conversations – the most heartbreaking and tongue-tied – at least a few feet away from him on the bed, he forced himself to watch the pained expression on her face, the way she shut down when he spoke of passed lovers.

"I can't take it back Blair," he said in a low voice, as she turned away from him, staring at the wall. "I can't undo my whole past."

"I know," she whispered.

"And it's not like you haven't got history. You do remember that folder you had in year ten, with Mrs. Nathaniel Archibald scrawled all over it," he said bitterly, with his knees pulled up towards his chin. Even now, the spark of jealousy was palpable in his voice.

"That's different," she protested petulantly. "It's one person – and you know nothing is happening there. This is different."

Staring darkly ahead of him, Chuck felt his voice take on that thick, coated sound that came when he was annoyed and drinking whiskey. "How? How is it different?"

Blair turned around then, to show him her wide, tearful eyes. He hadn't realized then that she was crying. "With Nate...you know him, you love him. You know where he is at all times, and you know what's happening in his confused little head. But with these…_girls_…with them it's anyone. It's the next girl that walks passed us on the way to breakfast."

His eyes softened. "That will never happen," he said with more urgency, now. "You have to believe me that it will never happen."

Even as he comforted her, he memorized her pain. He memorized the sloping, defeated shoulders and the way she half-buried her face so he would not be able to see it's splotchy, tearful redness. He memorized the effect that even the thought of infidelity had on her, so that it would be easy to summon if he ever experienced a moment of weakness, to stop himself if it ever came to that.

Not that he had so much as looked at another woman since he had confessed how much he loved her.

There was an undercurrent of terror for both of them: two independent but needy people trying to work against every instinct to distrust each other. It was more a process of Chuck attempting to vanquish those urges inside of him that wanted him to run for it before things got too serious, and the other, more terrifying part, that knew that he would never survive without her. She knew that it was hard for him, and so she called upon her many feminine wiles to distract him in an effort to make sure that monogamy never turned into monotony. One of the few times she had left his side, it had been to step out and purchase lingerie.

Serena and Eric had devised a system to deal with the chance sightings of Blair and Chuck around the house. Because neither Chuck nor Blair could keep their hands off each other, and they occasionally thought it necessary to emerge from Chuck's room into other parts of the house, Eric and Serena had taken to entering each room with a hand over their eyes, just in case. It was then a small process of passing on the code to one another:

Whenever Dan came over, he offered a bemused smile at Eric careening passed them, shouting, "Level five – kitchen."

"Him or her?" Serena shouted after him.

"Her!"

Serena would grin to herself. "I think we should give them a few minutes

"What the hell is he talking about?"

Serena grimaced. "It means that Chuck is in the process of…doing Blair a big favour. And that we should avoid the kitchen."

"Are they really that bad?"

Serena shuddered. "Eric didn't warn me about a Level Seven in the living-room last night, and I accidentally walked in on them possibly conceiving my future god-children."

Dan shuddered. But then he frowned at her. "Wait, if _that's_ Level Seven, what on earth is Level Eight?"

"Well Level Eight is any sexual positions that are named after creatures who could be the antagonists in cheap horror movies. We're leaving Level Nine open for any sexual practices that we haven't heard of yet – like if they end up getting kinky."

"Seems inevitable," Dan muttered.

"And Level Ten…well we're saving that one for if they ever ask us film them…or to join in."

"Perhaps we should focus on a scale of our own," Dan had said, with an attempt at the breathy voice that Chuck had mastered so many years ago. But, at that point, she pulled back. That had been happening more and more recently, and each time, the rejection seemed more inevitable and more painful. But Dan said nothing, and simply allowed her to babble more about her sex-crazed housemates.

Somehow, the rest of their classmates had cottoned on to the system – there was a thread dedicated to debating the scaling system on Gossip Girl.

"It's embarrassing," Blair squealed as she sat at Serena's computer reading the thread with Chuck looking over her shoulder.

"Well, maybe if you exercised some restraint in public…or around the house…this wouldn't be an issue," Serena countered, her arms crossed.

"Never," Chuck grinned, his hands running down Blair's arms.

"I told you – it's hopeless," Eric said pointedly to Serena. "They are sex-addicts."

"It's not my fault my boyfriend is a horny perv," Blair said with as much dignity as possible.

Chuck turned the computer chair around to face him, Blair smiling dreamily at him. "And it's not my fault that my girlfriend is the most insatiable, sexiest woman I've ever seen…"

At that point, Serena and Eric thought it best to excuse themselves, worried that a Level Seven unfold right before their eyes.

One night, Serena found herself unable to sleep. Walking down the hall, she heard a strange noise emanating from behind the door to Chuck's bedroom, which had opened a crack. With a groan of disgust, knowing that it was time to sit them down and discuss things before Chuck's bodily fluids drained entirely, Serena peeked through the gap to assess what level she was dealing with before she engaged in an intervention.

Peeking through the gap, Serena realized with a jolt that Chuck had not been engaging in sexual activities with her best friend, but had in fact been falling out of a nightmare. He was sitting up, his hair hanging over his face, chest rising and falling and slick with moisture. Unaware that Serena was surreptitiously watching from the hallway, and uncertain right then whether he was awake or in a dream, he reached out for the one person he allowed close to him during the nights.

"Blair," he choked out, causing her to sit up, ramrod straight in bed.

"It's okay," Blair cooed, clasping him tightly. "It was a bad dream. It's okay."

"Blair," he said again.

And for the life of her, Serena couldn't remember ever hearing a word uttered more poetically or with such feeling. In one syllable, Chuck invested all of his hopes for the future, all of his fears from the past. Serena's head was spinning with the force of it; in his mouth it had become a weapon. Blair. One word that could level him, and which she knew that he fought against with all of his might. Averting her eyes, she began to melt back from the scene, feeling it suddenly crass to watch such a private moment. But her ears caught a new tone that fascinated her. When he spoke it was as if the words were being torn from his larynx.

"It's my fault. It's my fault."

"No," Blair said gently, kissing the side of his head, almost enjoying this vision of vulnerability that he would only show her in a moment of confusion in the night. "It's my fault."

His eyes locked with hers. He was starting to wake up. "What do you mean?"

"If it's your fault, it's also my fault."

He swallowed and his breathing returned to its normal pace. "I love you," she whispered.

As Serena walked back to her bedroom, she heard one last snatch of their conversation.

"The scary thing is that I'm starting to believe you," Chuck rasped.

She hadn't given them grief about their overtly physical relationship since that night. And to her surprise, a few mornings later, Blair had unilaterally decided that she should check in with her house, and leave Chuck to do whatever it was Chuck did when he was alone. She knew that even through the heady early days of their relationship, any sense of captivity would cause him to run from her. And so she suggested that they ride to school separately.

It had been a decision with the best of intentions, but when Blair was nowhere to be seen Chuck felt entirely alone. Leaning on the school gate, he wondered at the absences in his life. Vanessa was busy trying to pay the rent by working at the gallery, and it was exhausting watching her put on a brave face over the fact that Nate was freezing her out. She had decided to join Blair at the women's shelter on Thursday afternoons, and the two were toying with the idea of making a documentary about it together.

"She's the only person anally retentive enough to keep up with me," Vanessa had explained to Chuck.

"Hmm," he said, trying to hide his smile. "At this rate, you're going to be my biggest competition for her affection."

Nate had all but dropped off the planet, and Serena was walking around in a type of daze herself at the moment. She was prone to thoughtful silences. She stared at Blair and Chuck's interactions more than she paid attention to her own boyfriend. And at times, it seemed as if she were on the verge of blurting out a great secret and merely stopped herself just in time.

And so, this morning, Chuck found himself trying to remember what exactly it _was_ that he had always done when he was alone – now that most of his extra-curricular activities were banned.

"You know, Humphrey, this only works if we _share _the joint. You just standing there gawking like an idiot is killing my buzz."

Chuck Bass had never thought he'd see the day when Dan Humphrey was the only person he had to hang out with. He had informed Dan that they were meeting before school, in a tone that brook no refusal. For all his irritating quirks, Chuck knew that Dan was not one to be ordered around, but keeping up the pretence was easier on Chuck's pride, so Dan took it in good humour.

That was how Dan found himself leaning against the wall where Chuck and Nate had used to take surreptitious tokes before class.

"And you're meant to be leaning against the wall, not looking like you're about to get gang-raped in prison."

"Sorry," Dan said sarcastically. "I'm not as comfortable with flagrantly breaking the law on school property in broad daylight…before eight in the morning…as you are."

"Not afraid of a subordinate clause, are you?"

For all of Chuck's degenerate ways, it was difficult not to enjoy the boy's wit. He knew that Chuck found it impossible to admit to Blair that he would have just preferred it if she didn't give him his independence, but that he was running a bit low in the friend department. There was a hint of desperation in Chuck's bravado, and Dan's heart had gone out to him.

"You're off early," Rufus had commented as he left the house.

"Yeah…I have a man-date with Chuck Bass."

"Right, well – three feet on the ground at all times," his father had said in a bewildered tone.

Now Dan found to his great amusement that Chuck was attempting to transform him into some kind of quasi-Nate. Or at the very least, was trying to affect that same friendship he had with Nate in the quirky relationship he was developing with Dan.

Chuck sighed heavily. "Okay, Humphrey, now the leaning is weird for me."

Dan knew that in the course of his eighteen years, Chuck had been friends with only one guy: Nate. And although Nate was a lot of fun, and the very embodiment of a buddy, his primary activities including PlayStation, soccer and dope. Restricting themselves to activities that Nate would have enjoyed was never going to work with Chuck and Dan. "Okay, please," Dan said eventually. "This has to stop. It's not that I don't appreciate the effort at bonding…"

"You know, usually, bonding is more successful if you don't call it that, but rather just let it happen," Chuck replied sniffily, throwing his joint on the ground.

Dan ignored him. "But seriously – I am sure that we can come up with something more creative than this."

"Well, gee, Humphrey, I had no idea you felt that way, but if you want to run home and get your equipment…"

"Yeah…a little less creative than that."

"So what do you want to do?"

Dan shrugged. "We could walk to the coffee stand and buy some coffee."

"Great," Chuck said sarcastically, even as he walked in step with Dan. "Then could we braid each other's hair and talk about boys?"

"We could talk about current affairs," Dan suggested.

Dan wouldn't have been surprised if Chuck had pulled out a file and buffed his nails to underline his disinterest. "Current affairs bore me."

"Art, then."

Chuck's mind flashed to Aaron Rose, his face darkening. "Artists are pretty low in my estimation at the moment."

"Maybe we could just sit quietly and read."

He had meant it as a joke, but at the mention of books, Chuck's head had lifted with interest. Almost shyly, he took a sip of coffee and shrugged his shoulders. "Dwight lent me _Brideshead Revisited_."

Jackpot, Dan thought with relief. But he knew that in an instant, Chuck would return to his usual clam-like state. "What did you think?"

"Charles Ryder is an ungrateful little upstart who should have been drawn and quartered on the lawns."

This started a ten-minute argument as Dan, who had always felt a great affinity with Charles, attempted to argue Chuck, himself a stubborn member of the upper classes, into submission. Of course, Chuck had refused to budge, and Dan had ended the conversation by muttering darkly about Chuck being first against the wall when the revolution came.

"It's guy love, between two guys," Blair sang playfully when she arrived at school to find them in heated debate, before engaging in a scorching kiss with Chuck.

"Please," Chuck scoffed. "As if my first foray into homoeroticism would be with someone from Brooklyn."

"And with that…the 'moment' is over," Dan muttered to himself, gathering his schoolbooks and hurrying to class. "See you in there, Bass."

"Later Humphrey," he murmured, as he wrapped his arms around Blair.

Blair was positively glowing as she kissed his jaw. "Did I interrupt anything?"

Chuck ignored her jibe and instead focussed on making her eyes roll back into her head with his light kisses. "How was your mother?"

A series of emotions played across Blair's face – too fast for him to name. "She was good," Blair said hesitantly.

"What's wrong?"

Blair shrugged helplessly. "You're not going to like it…"

"What?"

Averting her eyes, pulling away from him, she adjusted her headband. The sudden distance caused a sense of foreboding to grow in Chuck's chest.

"She wants you to come over for dinner tonight."

"Oh," Chuck said quietly. It shouldn't have been a big deal, he knew. Nate had gone to dinner at the Waldorfs many times. Of course, Nate hadn't nearly gotten Blair suspended for having sex in the library…nor had it been Nate who had lured Eleanor's precious daughter into all but living with him in the Van Der Woodsen House of Sin. "Why do I feel like Admiral Akbar is standing behind me with a sign saying 'it's a trap'?"

"Because you're a closet _Star_ _Wars_ fan?"

But Chuck was in no mood for jokes. "Seriously, Blair. What's her deal?"

Blair shrugged. She had been trying to figure it out herself. "It must be Cyrus's influence. It really seems like she's trying to make an effort to get to know you. I think it would be a good opportunity to clear the air. I mean, I've barely been home, so she's understandably worried about what we're getting up to."

Chuck sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair. "This is one of those compulsory boyfriend things, isn't it? Meeting the parents and all that shit?"

"You've known 'the parents' since kindergarten," Blair protested, wrapping her arms around his chest, noticing to her amusement that they were both wearing purple today.

"Fine, I'll do it. But only if you wear something positively _nasty_ so I have something to look at over dinner."

"Deal," she whispered, and within a few seconds, there was once more nothing but the two of them.

The two of them, and a very inconspicuous man, with a note pad, watching their every move.

* * *

Serena had a theory that blondes were no good at covert operations. And judging by the ridiculous way she and Nate were going about things, her theory had yet to be tested by any contrary evidence.

She was uncertain what made her lie about her dalliances with Nate. Perhaps it was his clear intention to cut all of their friends out of his life. Or perhaps it was the fact that whatever was happening in her mother's life had the potential to be devastating to the rest of her family. After years of living on the Upper East Side, under a veritable magnifying glass, Serena had developed a finely honed sense of scandal. She could not help but launch into damage control mode.

Clasping her coffee in her hands - a habit from winter which refused to die in the warmer months – she found her mind drifting once more to that evening when Nate had called her and she had returned home to find Lily in a tearful, drunken state.

"I'm a bad mother," she'd said over and over as Serena had made those cooing noises that Lily herself had made whenever Serena or Eric scraped a knee.

"You're not a bad mother. You're a wonderful mother - "

But Lily had just shaken her head. From what Serena could piece together, this had something to do with Rufus Humphrey and the abortive romance that Lily had pursued with him in the aftermath of Bart's death. As well as some terrible mistake from her youth, something so atrocious that Lily could only shake her head in the face of it.

Nate sat down opposite her, surprising her out of her reverie. Recently, he had been reminding her so much of Chuck, full of the darkness that seemed to consume her step-brother, that she found herself thinking about the way he had once been.

Even in their youth, when Blair and Nate had been a couple, there had always been a magnetism between Serena and Nate. It was part of the perfect balance of their little foursome. Chuck and Blair were the partners in crime; they were the ones with the devious streaks and the quick wits. Serena and Nate, though, they were the laughter of the group. Perhaps in some alternate universe, Serena and Chuck had decided to maintain the perfect symmetry of friendship by dating each other. She shuddered at the thought.

When had the easy flirtation begun? Perhaps it was when she noticed Nate's eyes upon her when she completely let herself go, when she was dancing, or running, or laughing with abandon. As fervently as she had denied it to Blair when her best friend went through one of her needy, paranoid moments, she had been acutely aware of her effect on Nate. And in the recklessness of her early days, it had been a pleasant dream to imagine herself in Blair's shoes: perfect, and with the perfect boyfriend. Perhaps it was just a dream that had pulled her to Nate.

Or maybe it was just a matter of the blondes having to stick together.

"Are you wearing a trench coat?"

"I thought we were, you know, being covert."

Serena laughed her two-year-old laugh, pleased when Nate's expression broke out into a true smile. "You have to hand it to us Nate, we're lousy at undercover."

Nate shrugged. "I suppose it does look kind of weird in Spring…"

"You look like a flasher."

Better yet was hearing his laugh.

But their levity was short-lived. With a serious expression on his face, Nate leaned into her, his eyes taking on an intense focus that she had never seen before. She was touched by his concern, but a little confused by his motives. She had ultimately decided that he was just looking for a distraction from his own familial woes. "So, did you talk to CeCe?"

Serena nodded. "It was a no-go. To be honest, I think that the only one to talk to is…well, Rufus."

Nate nodded thoughtfully. "That won't be an awkward conversation."

"I know, I figure I'll just walk in there and say, 'Hi, Dan's dad, can you tell me what happened when my mother was young that would make her write herself off at bars?' Very suave. Very not-lame." Serena let out a frustrated breath through her teeth. "We could really use the combined force of Chuck and Blair right now."

"We don't need Chuck and Blair," Nate said, just a bit too forcefully.

"Okay," Serena said, surprised. "Nate – what is going on with you guys?"

"Nothing," Nate grinned, and even that was too forced. "It's just, you know. It's weird to see them together. It's like everything's changed."

Serena shrugged. "Things change."

That was one of the most tantalizing and frustrating things about Serena. She never worried about the future. Nate found that recently it was all he could do not to burst at the seams with horrible thoughts about what was just around the corner. Sighing, he leant back in his chair. "I suppose. It would just be nice if some things would stay the same."

"Some things are – you've still got me," she said, putting a comforting hand on his arm.

It was a strange thing that at that moment both of their minds would return to that night at the Shepherd's wedding, when the air had stood still for an instant before they kissed for the first time. Pulling her hand back, Serena avoided his eyes. Nate just stared at the space where her hand had been. It seemed very cold and empty now.

"Thanks," he said. "Now we just need to figure out what Chuck and Blair would do in this situation."

"They'd trick it out of Rufus."

Nate nodded thoughtfully. "How are your acting skills these days?"

Serena feigned a hand over her heart. "Finely honed. Why, what did you have in mind?"

"Well, I think that we both have some business to attend to in Brooklyn."

* * *

Chuck had been more nervous than he was willing to admit. But when he and Blair entered her house – she, as promised, dressed in a skin-tight creation that already had him envisaging dessert – he had reassured himself that he was Chuck Bass, and that charm was second nature to him.

Until, of course, he saw the last thing he expected to see sitting at the Waldorf's dining room table: Aaron Rose.

Blair's first thought was that it must have taken some serious nerve to come here tonight. And although the sight of him filled her with horrible memories of the bruises that were mere memories themselves now, she found herself remembering those fleeting moments when they had been friends. He was still a tall streak of a thing, wearing a Kings of Leon t-shirt and sporting a hint of ironic facial hair. Blair found herself remembering her own image repeated over and over, and the hairs on her arms stood up.

It was horrible, really, the ways that the world found to interfere with her relationship with Chuck. Right now, judging by the murderous look on his face, she was about one minute away from witnessing Chuck Bass dismembering Aaron Rose in front of her mother and stepfather.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Cyrus enthused. "Our whole little family together."

Chuck shook his head slowly, disbelievingly. "What the _hell_ do you think - "

"Excuse us," Blair said with a false smile, tugging Chuck into a corner near the bookcase, out of earshot of Cyrus and Aaron, who exchanged puzzled looks.

The time for falling apart would come later. Now it was her job to avert disaster. Trying to shake the feeling of eyes upon her back (she was immediately regretting the plunging back of her dress, certain that Aaron was defiling the plane of her skin with his eyes), she put her arms on either side of Chuck, creating a cocoon of warmth, where they could be alone.

Chuck was shaking with rage. "I could fucking kill him, Blair, I swear to god."

"Well you can't," she whispered bluntly. "Not here – not in front of Eleanor and Cyrus. I mean, Aaron's his son – and she's about one Valium away from having you thrown out of the apartment forever."

His eyes were dark, looking over her shoulder at Aaron, who seemed oblivious to the exchange. "Then what, exactly, am I meant to do?"

"Sit down, be civil, and have dinner with him."

Drawing a shuddering breath, Chuck's eyes finally found hers. She was pleading with him not to make a scene. He knew that she had been understating the importance of dinner. Clearly, Eleanor had some very real concerns about him, which would only be compounded by his murdering her stepson at her dinner table. "If he so much as a _looks _at you - "

"I know."

"I'm not leaving your side all night," he said fervently.

Pulling him back to the table, she smiled that wide fake smile that she had been trained to wear at moments like these. "I'm sorry about that. Aaron, it's lovely to see you again. This is my boyfriend, Chuck Bass."

Aaron raised an eyebrow at the use of the word 'boyfriend' and Blair was suddenly reminded of all those secrets that she had shared with him when she had trusted his motives. It seemed obscene that he should be allowed to keep them now, after everything that had happened. Chuck merely stared stonily at him, trying with all his strength not to leap over the table.

"It's nice to meet you."

A beat of awkward silence came upon them. But at that moment, Eleanor entered the room. Noticing the tension in the air, she affected a jovial tone that belied the sharp words she had exchanged with her daughter that morning. "I see everyone is here. Have we all been seen to in terms of drinks? Charles, what's your poison?"

"Scotch," Chuck said simply, still staring at Aaron.

With a frown at his curtness, Eleanor nodded. It was remarkably easy, when they were seated at the vast table, to avoid talking about the One Thing that really mattered. It was probably because of Cyrus and Eleanor's extended absence that the talk flowed so easily. Whenever she couldn't think of anything to say to fill the silence, Blair would ask a question about Saint Paul de Vance to start the ball rolling once more. Aaron's job, of course, leant itself to polite conversation: lying at the meeting point of social galas and cultural elitism. As he talked about his work, Blair was reminded of why she had been drawn to him in the first place.

But there was an odd double-image effect in the room. Part of her was smiling graciously as he handed her the salad, while part of her was remembering how he had pinned her body down only metres away. Her mother would smile and something Aaron said, while Blair would remember the poker she had held up to ward him off. And that final denial, the claim that she had misunderstood, even as the bruises were forming on her cheek. That had been the worst insult of the horrible evening, when Chuck had been too late to save her and she had been forced to save herself.

Despite a few valiant attempts on Cyrus's behalf to draw Chuck into the conversation, it was taking all of Chuck's concentration, as well as the gentle weight of Blair's hand on his thigh to stop him from launching himself at the man who had given Blair those bruises. Chuck was furious with himself for allowing her to be put in this position. Aaron should have been dispatched weeks ago. But Chuck had allowed himself to grow complacent, and now he was ruining his chance to impress Eleanor by imagining the most creative ways to kill Aaron.

"And what about girls," Cyrus said, leaning back with a hand on his stomach. "Anyone special we should know about?"

Aaron had the good grace to seem slightly abashed at the question, and Blair nursed the faint hope that his mania had truly faded. That night he had seemed like a snake waiting in the garden for her. But tonight, he seemed different somehow. He seemed like the man who had told her that she needed to be stronger. The man who had made her dinner from colours.

"No one special," Aaron said quietly.

"You work too hard," Eleanor contributed with a pointed look at Chuck. "A good solid work ethic – you inherited it from your father."

"Having fun isn't a crime," Cyrus said warmly, smiling at his son.

But when Aaron looked up, his face had changed and all those gentle feelings she had been filled with dissipated. At that moment, his eyes had fallen on Chuck's stony countenance, and the gleam in Aaron's eyes hinted at disaster. Surely, Aaron wasn't going to test his luck by goading him. It was then that Aaron's eyes fell on her and all of the fear that she had been trying to keep at bay returned to her in full force.

"No victims, only willing participants," Aaron said, his eyes boring into Blair's.

And it was too much for Chuck, who leapt to his feet, sending his chair scraping against the marble floor. It was only Blair's hand on his chest, when she leapt up at almost the exact same moment, which stopped him from throwing the dining room table aside and tackling Aaron where he sat.

"Chuck's not feeling well, excuse us for a moment."

With that, Blair dragged him down the hallway, trying to put as much space between Chuck and Aaron as possible. She found herself leading him into the library, knowing perhaps that the close proximity to books would sooth him. And aware as well that this was a room in the house where Aaron had never been: a sanctuary of sorts, although it had once been the scene of her startling realization that her father was hiding things from her.

She had an ulterior motive for bringing him here. She was feeling needy tonight, and it was only when they were alone that she could collapse into his arms. And so, when she closed the door, she melted into his arms. And for once there was no initial resistance; he clung to her with all his might.

"I'm not making a very good impression, am I?'

Blair buried her face in his chest, her nose lying on his lapel. "I don't care," she said honestly.

"It's just too much," he said from somewhere above her head. "Knowing that he tried to…and now him sitting there and _me_ being the bad guy…its just too much to know what he could have done to you."

"I know," she whispered.

"No you don't," Chuck said desperately. "I don't even understand how I feel. There's something wrong with this. I shouldn't feel like this."

"Like what?"

He pushed her back, holding her before him so that he could take in the curls that cascaded over her shoulders. He kept shaking his head, searching for the words. "The thought that anyone could hurt you. I'd rather suffer any torture than see anyone lay a hand on you. No one should feel like this." His eyes were dark. "It's too much."

She cut her eyes away from the intensity of his face. It was all too much: this frenzy she felt for him, the pressure of having to be charming to someone who had betrayed her, and the telling glint in her mother's eye when Chuck was sullen and distant. Somehow, as they stood in that library where darkness and light jockeyed for dominance, the fight seemed to leave both of them. She knew that she needn't worry about Chuck causing a scene tonight; neither of them had the strength for that.

Stealing one more moment in his embrace, part of her wondered whether she had made a terrible mistake in allowing herself to feel this way for Chuck. They had resisted this feeling at every juncture, they had pushed each other away and clawed at each other until their frayed emotions had reached breaking point: either surrender now or walk away. Perhaps walking away would have been the safer option. They could have gotten away with a few, blunt parting words, some residual awkwardness, and maybe even some break-up sex. But giving in as entirely as they had guaranteed that there was no going back. And they were destined to live their lives constantly under threat.

Would they ever escape those spectres that circled over their heads? Blair doubted it, but there was nothing left to do. She had chosen her path. And it seemed that Chuck's thoughts were ticking along the same lines as hers, because his eyes were distant and his features settled in a look of repose, so focused that showing any expression at all is impossible.

"I was thinking about Bart's funeral. That day you first…said it to me," he said suddenly, his eyes still seeking out something in the distance. His arms were still tight around her; even as she pulled back from the memories he was conjuring, he wouldn't let her slip away. "I screwed up. But I think that I knew that this would have been too much for me then."

Blair found it hard to speak through her tight throat. "And is it now?"

This question, finally, seemed to capture his attention. His face grim, he traced a line across her face. "Maybe," he conceded. "But I have no choice."

A silence settled over them as they contemplated the magnitude of what they had created between each other.

With a resigned sigh, Blair took Chuck's hand in hers. "Let's go back to the table."

There seemed to be some kind of altercation going on at the table; the sound of sharp words, whispered, fearful of prying ears. Blair was relieved that everything was muffled, although she and Chuck both knew that the subject of the frantic discussion was currently holding her hand.

"Well you explain it to me Cyrus," Eleanor said in a voice straining to remain a whisper when it was so clearly meant to be a shriek.

Wanting to cut her mother off, Blair opened the door noisily. If there had been any doubt about what they had been talking about, the guilty look on their faces was enough evidence. Chuck was careful to glare at Aaron as he sat there angelically at the table.

It seemed as if Eleanor had decided that there was no point clinging to social niceties. "If you're not feeling well, Charles," Eleanor said coolly, "then you should go home."

Chuck shot a look at Aaron. "Party disbanding is it? Do you need a ride?"

"Yes, well," Eleanor glanced at Aaron. "Of course, Aaron's family. We'll be sure he gets home safely."

The note of dismissal was all too obvious. Blair knew that there was no avoiding it, even as she saw Chuck wrack his brain for a reason to stay, to make sure that she was not forced to be alone. Seeing no avenue, he nodded. "Very well, Mrs. Rose, thank you for having me. Mr. Rose, it is always a pleasure."

"It was nice to meet you," Aaron called, earning a glare from Chuck. Blair could all but see her mother subtracting another point from Chuck's score for the evening.

"I'll see Chuck out," she said.

As they walked to the door, Blair noticed, for the first time that evening, that Chuck had put special effort into his appearance that night. Although he always put effort into his appearance, an eye as trained as Blair's could appreciate the finer details, especially when coupled with her encyclopaedic knowledge of Chuck's history. She saw that he had put on the cufflinks Bart had given him for the wedding: perhaps a good luck token. She noticed that he had made sure that the tone of his tie was suited to her dress. He had shined his shoes.

The thought of Chuck sitting in his room in the apartment owned by a family unit that he would always feel he was a guest in, buffing his shoes, and putting on his lucky cufflinks broke her heart. There was something so lonely about the image. She wondered whether someone had told him that he looked good – not to be nervous. Blair felt a thrill of unfair anger at Lily; although she had taken him in, insisted upon it in fact, the image of Lily walking into his room, smiling at him and telling him to put on the cufflinks from the wedding, was unimaginable. He had probably had to see to such details by himself. Not even Nate was around anymore.

And the fact that he had put in so much effort, been so obviously nervous, in an attempt to impress a woman who was so set on hating him broke Blair's heart. She hated that his chance at impressing her mother had been ruined – that his concern for her, his hatred of the man who had tried to hurt her had forced him to act poorly. She could have stamped her foot at the injustice of it. But there was nothing she could do to wipe the misery from his face. There was nothing that could stop the tragic squeak of his splendid shoes from sounding like an admission of defeat.

He would have hated to know that she felt sorry for him. So, she said nothing about the sympathy she could scarcely swallow, and instead kissed him with as much searing passion as she could muster. Let him mistake an embarrassing protectiveness as randy attraction. She pressed her body to his, wanting desperately to give him love enough for all of those figures in his life who came up short.

"I'm waiting downstairs until _he_ leaves," Chuck said firmly.

Blair just nodded mutely, finding it impossible to shake this feeling of protectiveness. Chuck misinterpreted her silence for vulnerability and ran his hands over her shoulders. His ego would never allow him to conceive of himself as a tragic figure: as someone deserving of sympathy.

"I suppose its safe to say that we're not going to make this a weekly thing," he said, grimacing to himself.

Blair grinned at him mischievously, her heart breaking for him. "We're just going to have to find another way to fill the nights. Perhaps Scrabble."

He grinned. "Strip Scrabble?"

"With you, Bass, there's no other type."

He smiled, nodding to himself as he stepped into the elevator. "Yeah, she wants me," he said, addressing no one in particular.

"You bet she does," Blair said in a small voice as the doors closed.

When Blair entered the room again, the room had a decidedly "thank god – the guests are gone" air to it. Eleanor had slipped off her heels and Cyrus had undone his tie. And there was Aaron, lounging on the couch, enjoying the ill-deserved privilege of being among family. Blair wondered whether beating him to death with a poker was an option.

"Chuck was a bit stroppy tonight," Eleanor observed as she helped Dorota clear the dishes from the table.

Blair wished that Aaron hadn't been listening smugly. "I told you he wasn't feeling well."

"Unless being curt and unpleasant is a disease these days…"

"Like you can talk," Blair spat, furious at the entire situation. "How dare you just _dismiss_ him like that? He is my boyfriend."

"Blair, please," Eleanor said, glancing at Aaron.

"What? We're all one big, happy family, aren't we? Why else would Chuck have to leave? I mean, obviously some things can only be said in front of _family_."

"Fine," Eleanor said, shaken by her daughter's barefaced defiance. "What do you have to say for Chuck's behaviour tonight, Blair?"

She had – at most – a few minutes before the tears truly started to fall. Determined not to let Aaron have the victory of viewing them, she knew she had to escape to her room. There would have been a vindictive pleasure in using these fleeting moments to take a few shots at Aaron, to unmask him in front of Eleanor. But if she had, then the compassionate look on Cyrus' face would have faded to horror and then to disbelief. And all of Chuck's restraint would have come to naught.

"Think whatever you want, mother. Chuck is in my life, and you are just going to have to learn to deal with it. Or you will find your happy little family losing a member. Goodnight, Cyrus."

The night had one, small victory then. She made it to her room before the tears came.

* * *

The Humphrey gallery was a labour of love, but no amount of coffee and hipster art could hide the fact that business, which had been slow at the best of times, was grinding to a standstill.

Vanessa couldn't help but feel a thrill of guilt whenever Rufus smiled at her widely and insisted that she take all of the tips, offered her little pay rises. She knew that he could not really afford the little café she had created from nothing, but he would never let economic reality interfere with his affection for her. So she stayed on, cleaning a coffee machine that was rarely used and using her shifts to make finishing touches to her portfolio.

Realistically, she knew that this job would simply cease to exist next year, when she commenced her tenure (hopefully) at the Tisch film school at NYU. This wonderful set up, with the family that she adored, was not permanent, and small, grim part of her was looking forward to the day that it all fell apart. It had become difficult not to factor the Humphreys into her future plans. She came at every problem with a small voice in her head urging her to think about how it would relate to Dan, this job, Rufus Humphrey, or even Jenny. And as she slowly came to terms with the fact that Nate was disappearing from her life, it served merely to reawaken her attachment to her best friend and his family.

But she knew that cutting ties was necessary, vital, to her progress. She knew that Dan was destined for something great, and if a part of her knew that she could not hold onto him – not if she wanted to achieve her own dreams. And the independent part of her was embarrassed by this attachment; who cared this much for a friend? Who would put a friend before themselves? There was something pathetic in that, she knew.

She and Blair had spoken about the future last Thursday at the homeless shelter, when Blair had been wearing a no-nonsense apron, which somehow transformed itself into haute couture on the brunette's enviable frame. Vanessa had been sitting at a table, watching the businesslike way Blair attended to even the most meagre tasks. She had been so run off her feet – everyone seemed to rely on her – that she hadn't had a chance to sit down with Vanessa until quite late. As always, Vanessa was fascinated by Blair, this girl that she could barely categorise as friend or foe, and so had simply watched her, making half-hearted notes on _Tess of the D'Urbervilles _in a ratty notebook.

Somewhere in the course of the early evening, Blair had secretly ordered Vanessa some food, but when she had tried to offer to pay for it, Blair had merely raised a hand, "Please, the day I accept money from a Village Hipster is the day I wear moccasins."

It was a red-letter day; Vanessa didn't feel the urge to respond with a barb, but had just rolled her eyes and started eating.

When Blair finally joined her, Vanessa had cocked her head to one side. "You look happy."

Blair rolled her eyes. "Yeah, nothing thrills me quite like playing Boggle with a bunch of unwashed children."

"No, I mean – you. You just seem happy."

"Why do people keep telling me that?"

"Gee, I don't know. Maybe because it's true?"

And it was true. It was in those little demonstrations of concern for others: a sign of Blair's eroding self-interest. A sign that she was learning to look outside of herself. If she kept this up, Vanessa might have to start being friends with her. Eyeing Blair as she sipped her coffee, Vanessa noted the way the other girl would glance at her mobile phone, smiling slightly when there was a message (from Chuck assumedly).

"He hates it when I come here," Blair said suddenly.

"Chuck?"

"No, Michel Foucault," she said archly.

"Wow," Vanessa deadpanned. "I didn't know Upper East Side princesses did irony."

Blair shrugged with a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "Well, when pilates went out of fashion, we had a bit of spare time to dedicate to it."

"Why doesn't he like it?"

Her brown eyes settled into a distant point. It was here that Blair always seemed to flee when she spoke about Chuck – a rare instance in itself. It was easier, probably, not to see the look of disbelief in the other person's face ("Chuck_ Bass_ is your _boyfriend?_"). Or maybe she was trying to see the future. Vanessa had been trying to do that herself in the face of a future whose shape had not yet formed.

"He thinks it's dangerous," Blair said dreamily. "And he hates not being around me."

"Sweet," Vanessa said neutrally, staring at her intently.

Blair shrugged. "Annoying, too. I can't help having commitments. It's not that I don't get it. All I want to do is spend all my time with him before…"

"Before?"

"Come on," Blair said darkly. "Chuck at college? Chuck wearing a Yale chino?"

Vanessa hadn't thought of that. "When do you find out about college?"

"Soon. Really soon. And you know, I haven't even asked him if he's applied."

"Why not?"

The frame of Blair's body seemed to have crumpled during the course of their conversation. It was as if an uncertain future was pressing down on her. As a secret fan of Chuck and Blair's relationship, Vanessa felt her own mood turn gloomy. Was it really possible that this romance, which seemed to be the substance of the great movies of the past really end like any other High School relationship? The cliché irked her. It would be such a waste. But of course, Vanessa was thinking about them as if they were characters in a film. Chuck and Blair were not immune to reality. And if that was true, what hope did Vanessa have?

"Because we don't talk about the future yet. We're still getting used to the present, and dealing with the past. Besides. Can you imagine how fast he would evaporate if I asked him what his long term intentions were?"

Vanessa grinned. "There would be a Chuck Bass outline where he was once standing."

"And a spinning cap that fell to the ground," Blair agreed. "What about you and Nate? Have you spoken to him recently?"

Swallowing the painful lump seemed to lodge itself in her throat when she thought about Nate's silence, Vanessa attempted bravado. "I'm still staring at the spinning cap."

"Nate doesn't wear caps," Blair smiled sympathetically. "Messes up his hair."

"Well, the outline then."

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence.

"He's an idiot," Blair said quietly.

"He's going through a lot."

"Yes," she agreed. "But he's still an idiot. As if breaking up with me wasn't enough of a demonstration of that."

"Okay," Vanessa grinned. "We're agreed that he's an idiot. I still think you should talk to Chuck. It's not just…casual with you two. I think you'll be surprised by him, by what his intentions are. Just a vibe I get, I suppose. I mean its you two - Chuck and Blair…"

"Blair and Chuck," Blair said dreamily. "Maybe you're right."

Neither was entirely sure where to go from there. It was still too early to hug after these random deep and meaningful conversations they seemed to get embroiled in recently. So, Vanessa had shrugged and suggested that they talk about the documentary.

* * *

Vanessa was still looking at the scenes she had filmed that day, marvelling at Blair's unintentional screen presence and that imperious vulnerability she brought to her every task. It was lucky that there were no customers that evening; it would have been difficult to tear herself away.

"Hey Vanessa."

Difficult, but not impossible. Especially if that customer was Nate Archibald. It had been weeks of nothing. Folding her arms across her chest, Vanessa tried to resist the urge to run to him; he had always been too beautiful for his own good, too prone to getting his own way. And judging by his foot scuff and hunched shoulders, this was not a conversation that would end with them skipping through a field of daisies.

"Hey Nate. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten my address."

"Hi Vanessa," Serena said suddenly, appearing from behind Nate. "I'm just going to see – I'll just go see Rufus."

Vanessa watched as Nate and Serena exchanged a meaningful look, one that infuriated her. They were just too perfect, standing there together. They were movie stars, they were cast in Calvin Klein ads – they were in Coldplay video clips. And all Vanessa was aware of was the outlandish hue of her jeans and the way her hair was thrown into a bun, while Serena's cascaded down her back, effortlessly.

"He's out back."

Serena nodded and shared another one of those meaningful looks with Nate. It was impossible not to watch them when they stood next to each other, but when it was just Nate, Vanessa could turn her back, pretend to be busy. She remembered, idly, how she had once imagined how life was when Blair and Nate had been together, how wrong the scene was without Chuck and Blair aligned. Perhaps Serena and Nate were the other side of the equation. Perhaps Serena and Nate would be the way this uneven, ill-balanced little group found it's way again.

Of course, there was one thing that needed to be dispensed with. Vanessa knew what was coming when Nate said those dreaded words.

"We need to talk."

With a deep breath, Vanessa turned around to face him once more. "Well that doesn't sound ominous, does it?"

There was something irritating about Nate's stance. He looked contrite, of course, but there was a certain arrogance in his face, as if he was stubbornly refusing to step back from some defiance. And Vanessa could tell from his impatience that he just wanted to get this over with.

"I think you know what I'm going to say, V."

"I really don't," she said, stubborn to the last.

"I'm leaving New York."

"I see," Vanessa said quietly.

He looked at her with those blue eyes from under his ridiculously styled bangs. "That's it?"

Vanessa felt an overwhelming desire to laugh at him. "Well what else is there to say? You want me to say that I'm surprised? This is just one of the selfish things you've done since your father's trial – hell, probably before that. So no, Nate. I'm not surprised. I'm not anything. Because you're not anything to me anymore. There. I made it easier for you."

"I don't want to end things like this," Nate said quietly.

"Then don't," she said angrily. "Don't desert your family, your friends. Don't desert me."

"I have to," he said, and a note of regret came into his voice. She couldn't look away from those lips of his.

"Well, then I have to tell you that you are a selfish jackass. Have a great trip."

He made a few gestures towards her, but she wouldn't have a bar of it. Sitting stubbornly behind the counter, she opened her computer to stare blankly at the images in front of her. She found, to her surprise, that she didn't want to cry. She was simply furious at him, but there was a triumph in being set free. Finally, Vanessa saw the first of her bonds breaking, and the freedom was exhilarating. Besides, she'd had times to come to terms with Nate's desertion of her. It had started long before he had gathered the cajones to actually tell her.

Unable to leave without Serena, Nate awkwardly took a seat at one of the little round tables she had spent so much time scrubbing when she found them in various second-hand shops around town. He idly picked at the flowers she took paints to put in the centre of those tables.

"The seats are for customers only," she spat.

He looked at her incredulously. "Vanessa…"

"What? It's a rule."

"Fine. I'll have a coffee."

"Coming right up."

_And don't be surprised if I spit in it_, Vanessa thought angrily as she slammed coffee into the cappuccino machine with more force than was necessary, pretending it was Nate's gorgeous face. But before she could finish, there was a sudden tap-tap-tap of heels as a tearful Serena appeared at the entry to the café.

"I'm sorry, Vanessa – we have to go. Nate, can we go?"

"Serena," Nate said, staring at her reddening face. "Are you okay."

"Just…let's go. I have to go."

Still not entirely certain what was happening, Vanessa stared at Nate as he stood immediately to attention and ran to Serena. At that moment, he was all the things that were wonderful about him; so strong and protective as he bundled Serena away. He was all of the things that he would never be to Vanessa again.

"It'll be okay, you'll see," he said to her, the small glint of victory in his eyes almost obscured by the concerned set of his face.

They had almost reached the door before Nate thought to turn around once more. "Goodbye, Vanessa."

With no words, she held up her hand. It could have meant anything – it could have been a plea to stop, a sign that he should get no closer, but it was also a close enough facsimile of a wave goodbye.

And with an ambiguous gesture and an impenetrable gaze, Nate left her life, leaving nothing but a half-made cup of coffee in his wake.

* * *

It was in this house and on this night over two years ago, when Chuck had seen Blair truly drunk for the first time.

It had been the day after her father had left them, and Nate had been sailing with his father, leaving behind a smiling girlfriend full of false assurances that she was doing just fine. With head held high, she had gone to Hazel's party, only to find that smirks and sneers were too much to face without the armour of a loyal boyfriend. And so she had done what any warm-blooded woman would have done in her situation: she got wasted.

A stranger would have assumed, when she walked into the party with that eye catching red dress and those teasing red lips, that she had not a care in the world. But Chuck knew better; he knew from the tightness of her smile, the height of her shoes, and the slight twitch in her jaw that things were far from fine.

"Oh my god," Penelope whispered with a sick grin. "I _cannot_ believe she came."

"Of course she came," Hazel contributed in that bored tone she saved for her cruellest remarks. "The only thing that's worse than finding out your father's blowing a guy is blowing off the social event of the year."

Chuck had materialized from the sidelines, as he always did. "First of all ladies, this _event_ won't even make your building's social pages. And speaking of blowing – Hazel, I never did thank you for that blow-job you gave me at your boyfriend's party last week."

With that, he left the flabbergasted hostess and went over to Blair, gesturing a little too widely for a girl who had just been deserted by her beloved father.

"Blair," he breathed, close to her ear. "Do you want to go somewhere and talk?"

She smiled at him falsely. "About what?"

Chuck frowned at her. He wasn't used to saying things like "do you want to go somewhere and talk?" so it seemed unjust of her to make him elaborate. Matching her fake smile with an equally fake smirk, Chuck pitched his voice so it was just audible to Nate's buddy, who she had be speaking to. "We could talk about how much I want to see what you're wearing under that - "

"Okay, Warrick, I'll talk to you later," she said over her shoulder as she dragged Chuck away.

"If you wanted to get some privacy, all you had to do was – _ouch_. What the hell is wrong with you?"

She smiled sweetly. "Oh I'm sorry? Did I accidentally kick you in the shin?"

Chuck scowled at his best friend's girlfriend and her evil Louboutin pumps. "You know, I think that it's your charm that really sets you apart from the other wenches on the Upper East Side."

Blair gestured to the waiter to give her another drink. "Oh, you're sweet. What did you want to talk about?"

At this point, before they had dared to take measure of their feelings for each other, the real conversation was always in the subtext. There were things that were never said out loud. There were moments passed that could never be acknowledged: those lingering looks and touches, the way he had stroked her thigh when she sat on his lap in the limo, the searing look she had given him on the Ferris wheel. Neither of them would look those moments in the eye. They were to be ignored at all costs, lest the delicate entendre they had worked so hard to perfect crumple before their eyes.

"I don't know," he said smoothly, taking a glass of champagne for himself. "We could talk about Mayor Giuliani's potential White House bid. Or whether we think Bono is a philanthropist or a fraud…"

"Or we could talk about whether we think your venereal disease has made you lose your mind."

"Or we could talk about your father shacking up with a male model and fleeing the country," Chuck dead-panned.

Blair froze, mid-sip. Lowering her glass shakily, she fixed him with the sternest look she could muster. "Do _not_ talk about my father."

"Fine," he responded through gritted teeth as their classmates jostled around them. "But I think you should talk about it."

"Why would I talk about it with _you_? I have Nate."

He would never let her see how much that wounded him. Because this was the game that they played. To gain an advantage at any cost. So, he merely smiled, as if this had been his plan all along. "They get good cell reception on the boat, do they?"

She stared stonily ahead.

"I thought so," he said, breathing next to her ear before stepping away to melt into the crowd. "Enjoy the party, Blair."

"Oh I will, thank you."

And despite his determination to forget about her for the evening, he found that even as he lifted the hair from the shoulders of another girl to whisper delicious things into her ear, his mind would wander back to Blair. Sometimes, her laugh would cut through the crowd and he would be distracted from his latest conquest.

"She is just embarrassing herself," Kati muttered to Iz as they walked passed Chuck, whose hand had been making steady progress up the thigh of a blonde girl who was on vacation from Connecticut.

"I know. And I don't think Nate would be happy to see her throwing herself at those guys."

It was at that point that Chuck forgot all about Kelly? – Kate? – Katheryn? – and made his way furiously to where Blair was all but stumbling over her own feet in a rare display of public drunkenness. He noticed, with a large measure of displeasure, that people were taking surreptitious photos of her. She was indeed talking to a large number of idiot lacrosse team-members, laughing shrilly and touching their arms lightly. When Chuck fixed an iron grip on her arm, she didn't immediately shake him off, which was a certain sign that she was indeed as drunk as the girls had reported.

"God, Chuck, let go of me," she protested, slurring her words slightly.

"Sorry to disappoint you guys, the roofie window has closed. Blair will be coming with me now."

She still had hold enough of her faculties to be royally pissed off at him. "Where are you taking me?"

"To Hazel's bedroom," he said flatly.

"_What_?"

"To the bathroom en suite of Hazel's bedroom," he amended with a slight grin at her scandalized face.

Blair looked at his profile blearily, even reaching out to poke his cheek with her finger. "That was different," she said quietly as he all but carried her into the bathroom. He sat down on the corner of the bath, with Blair balanced awkwardly half next to him and half on his lap. It was probably a first for him when he realized that he had not spared a thought to her red dress as she sat on his lap, but only worried about whether he would be able to convince her to throw up some of the excess alcohol in her system before he took her home in his limo.

She was still tracing a line across his cheek. "What was different?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"You said something was different, back there. What was it?"

Blair cocked her head to the side. "Oh. I remember. You grinned."

"I did not grin," Chuck scoffed.

"Yes, you did. You _grinned._ Usually you smirk, but that time you smiled."

"You're drunk," he said dismissively.

"That is hard to deny. What are we doing in here?"

This would be the hard part. "I want you to throw up."

She crossed her arms: the very caricature of a lady who has been asked to do something decidedly unladylike. She could have affected no more outrage had he asked her to give him a lap dance. "I will do no such thing."

"In a few minutes I'm going to take you home in my limo and I'd prefer it if you got this over and done with now rather than ruining my upholstery."

With her chin held high, she struggled with the edge of the bathtub, pulling herself to her feet. "I'm not doing it Chuck, so you can forget about it."

She got maybe two feet away from him before the height of her shoes caused her to teeter unstably.

"Blair," Chuck said through gritted teeth. "Will you just let me help you?"

"No. I'm fine. You're chivalry is wasted on me. Because I am a grown woman. You don't need to baby me…and treat me like baby…because I'm not a baby. I'm a woman. And you are a - " Chuck waited for her addled brain to produce something workable.

"I'm a what?"

"A buzz kill," she said triumphantly before taking a few more steps, almost slipping over, but catching herself on the edge of the blindingly white sink. With a resigned sigh, Chuck stood behind her, wrapping his arm around her midsection, steadying her.

"Chuck, let go."

"You're going to break your neck. Let me take off your shoes," he said, bending down to undo the pumps.

"No! A Waldorf never takes off her shoes in public," Blair said angrily.

Chuck was glad that no one could see him kneeling on the cold floor struggling with the tiny straps that kept these stilts fastened to her feet. "What, is that in the Waldorf manual? Is it right under, I will not put out until marriage?"

Blair chose to ignore his crass remarks. Noticing suddenly that he was kneeling in front of her, she frowned. "Wait - are you taking them off?"

"Yes, so stop bitching and let me do this."

She picked the worst possible moment to twist away from him. With a shrill cry - "Let go of me!" – she topped down onto his lap as he tried to catch her to lessen the impact. It took a moment for either of them to realize that Blair was now straddling his lap as he sat against the wall opposite the basin with his arms around her waist. And even when it dawned on them, Blair stayed there on his lap and he kept his shameless hands right where they were.

"I think I shouldn't have tried to get away when you were holding onto my shoes," she said seriously.

"Yeah, that was probably a bad move," he agreed.

There was a palpable shift in the hue of the room as Blair adjusted herself slightly on his lap, facing him in the most intimate way she could have designed. There was always a thrill of danger with Chuck; anything was possible, although she knew that he valued Nate's friendship with a strange sort of reverence. Regardless, it seemed that tonight all he wanted to do was stare at her.

Blair had never been comfortable with scrutiny, but in her drunken state, she did not shy away from his gaze. Nor did she comment when he slid his hand down her calves to undo the buckle of her shoes. Not once did he break their stare. Free of her shoes, Blair sighed. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders – they seemed the safest place. But a thought occurred to her as she took in his intense stare.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

Chuck leant his head back against the white tiles, trying not to think about the way her dress was riding up her smooth thighs. It was suddenly vital to get her off him. He was almost certain that if he looked into those brown eyes of hers, he wouldn't be able to resist from kissing her. And if he did that, everything would change. She would tell Nate, and all of Nate's trust would come to naught. But if he was honest with himself, the reality was that he didn't want to kiss her like this, when her life was falling apart and her boyfriend was out to sea. The idea of kissing her was terrifying.

She was still waiting for an answer. "Because I think Nate would be annoyed if I didn't try to intervene when his girlfriend was acting like a drunken idiot at her friend's party."

"I think I'm going to be sick," she said, holding a hand over her mouth. Scampering now that she was free of her shoes, she leant over the toilet bowl. But, it seemed that this would be a secret ritual for her tonight. "Wait outside," she ordered, summoning some kind of super-human restraint by not vomiting with him watching.

And so he wordlessly left the room, almost disappointed that she had asked him to leave, even if he didn't relish the thought of witnessing such an act. Maybe if he had stayed inside, she would have started crying in front of him, perhaps he would have had to hug her and say the nice things that he had prepared during their walk to the bathroom. She would have thought him kind if he had said the right things to her. But of course, he was Chuck Bass. And girls didn't cry on Chuck Bass's shoulder.

When she emerged, the only sign that anything had transpired was the smell of toothpaste and the glassy look of eyes that had shed tears only minutes before.

"You can take me home now," she'd said, avoiding his eyes.

"Okay."

With that, they had never spoken of the evening again. But, its memory was strong for Chuck as he walked into the house for the first time in what seemed like ages. That nervous, tongue-tied boy that he had been was gone now, and he didn't have to watch Blair from across the room. Because she was warm, and real, and clutching his arm.

"You look amazing tonight," Chuck whispered into her ear after they greeted a bemused looking Hazel at the door.

"Thank you," she said, radiant in the dim lights. "I just can't help but think this dress is going to look better on your bedroom floor later tonight."

It had once been impossible for Chuck to imagine being happy, and now he found that he had reached a state of bliss. But even as they entered the crowded room, a tiny voice in Chuck's head assured him that bliss like this couldn't last.

* * *

Serena hadn't wanted to explain things to Nate, although he clearly wanted her to confide in him. It was a family matter, she had said coolly, aware that it would hurt him to be excluded; he had so enjoyed their being in cahoots. He had told her, with much significance, that he was leaving the city in the morning. She had all but ignored him, repeating over and over that she had to find her mother.

She had already missed several calls from Blair – it was Hazel's birthday, and she and Dan were supposed to join Blair and Chuck at the festivities before they all went to have dessert at Payard Patisserie and Bistro. Even when they had made the plan, Serena had balked at the idea of sitting within the aura of Chuck and Blair. It was worse than the canoodling of a new couple; there was an intensity between them that defied explanation. And it was impossible not to draw comparisons in her head between the humdrum comfort of Dan's hand in hers and the look of revelation that came across Chuck's face whenever Blair brushed his arm.

Chuck Bass is a romantic. Who knew?

But now, tonight, had taken on a deeper significance. Because Rufus Humphrey had told her something she had never expected.

He had been remarkably easy to hoodwink, being of such a trusting nature that Serena was reminded with a pang of how close he had been to dating her mother – how good they would have been for each other. She had told Dan's kind father that her mother wanted to meet with him, that she had told Serena the big secret that had torn them apart after Bart's funeral, and that it seemed to Serena to be nothing that they couldn't get over.

"How can you say that when there is a child out there that I never knew about?"

Grief and regret chased each other across Rufus' face. He was so distracted that he didn't notice Serena's shock. "A – a child?"

So trusting was this man that it didn't occur to him that Serena would come to him under any false pretences. He couldn't envisage that she would be so cavalier about his feelings for Lily that she would make an outrageous claim. And so she felt ashamed of herself, even as Rufus unveiled her mother's past. It had obviously been preying on the man; he was so eager to share with her.

"Aren't you curious about what he's like?" He fixed his deadened eyes on her. "Now imagine how much worse it is for me."

The horror had settled upon her and she regretted ever pursuing this lead. "I'm sorry – I shouldn't have come. I have to go."

"Serena," Rufus said, startled out of his reverie.

"I'm sorry – I'm sorry," Serena stuttered.

"You played me," he said quietly. "You had no idea, did you?"

She hadn't answered – she had just left him sitting in that leather chair, contemplating the awful bomb that he had just crashed into her life. If it had been possible to leave the entire conversation in that room, Serena would have done so. Because catastrophe had never been her strong suit, and she was not ready for her life to be reshuffled. Each minute brought a new revelation; she and Dan shared a sibling, her mother had gotten pregnant with Rufus Humphrey, she was not Lily's first child. There was no other choice, than to seek out her mother.

She found her mother sitting in a dark room at the back of their house, with a glass of wine in hand. Lily seemed to be doing nothing more than staring into the distance. When she finally noticed Serena staring at her, she didn't attempt to smile, she didn't attempt to do anything. She just looked at her daughter, waiting.

"Did Rufus Humphrey call?"

Lily nodded mutely.

"Is it true?"

Another nod.

"Mom," Serena said, still tearful. "Say something."

"I was nineteen years old," Lily said quietly. "What did I know about being a mother?"

"Probably about as much as you know now," Serena spat. "Where is he?"

Lily gestured helplessly. "I have no idea."

"Of course. Why should you care?"

This, finally, seemed to wake Lily up. Standing to her full height, still shorter than Serena, Lily glared fiercely at her daughter. "Don't speak about things that you don't understand."

"It's not even a shock, you know," Serena said, determined to hurt her mother. "I know from personal experience how easy it is for you to pick up and leave your children."

As she spoke these words, articulating every horrible thought that Lily herself had had when Rufus had looked at her with loathing. Crumbling before her daughter's fury, Lily pressed her palms to her eyes. When she spoke, her voice with thick with exhaustion. "I was so young, Serena. And it was the worst thing I have ever done. But if you think that you can say anything as bad as what I have thought of myself. Well, then, you lack imagination."

It was not natural for Serena to hate. She was bad at cruelty and had never seen the appeal of the acts that seemed to titillate Blair. So, when she saw how deeply her mother was affected by her words, the fight went out of her. She almost put her hand on Lily's shoulder, but stopped short of this forgiving gesture. "That's an excuse for why you did it in the first place. Not why you never told me."

Lily couldn't look at her. "It was the worst thing I ever did. And when you were young and wild, I didn't want to give you a new benchmark for misbehaving. I didn't want to have a past. I was trying to be a mother. And after you came back, and became this whole new woman. Well, then I didn't want to let you down by admitting that I had done something horrible." Finally, Lily settled her eyes on Serena's stony countenance. "Tell me what I can do to make you forgive me?"

Serena sat opposite her mother. "I need you to tell me everything you know about him."

"Why?"

"Because I am going to find him."

* * *

Blair and Chuck were leaving the party when Nate accosted them on the street outside Hazel's house, next to the waiting limo.

"Nathaniel! If you're thinking of going up there, don't bother," Chuck smirked, arm wrapped around Blair. "The only people worth speaking to just left."

"I'm not going up. I was looking for you, man."

Chuck smiled at his old friend, noting the excitement that caused pink patches on his cheeks. Nate seemed completely wired, which Chuck supposed was a pleasant change from the apathy that the previous month. All but bouncing on the balls of his feet, Nate completely ignored Blair, even as she and Chuck exchanged secretive smiles.

"Well, you've found me. What do you need?"

Nate cast a glance at Blair. "I need to talk to you."

Chuck followed his gaze and disentangled himself from Blair's arm. Kissing her hand, he took a few steps towards Nate. "What is it man?"

With a deep breath, Nate repeated the words he had said to Vanessa hours earlier. It was getting easier every time. "I'm leaving New York."

"What?" Chuck smiled crookedly, nervously. "For a vacation?"

"I don't know…maybe longer."

"What about school?"

Nate let out a harsh bark of laughter. "Sorry, Mom, what? I tell you I'm leaving the city and _that's_ what you say to me?"

"I'm sorry if I was meant to perform a musical number. I'm just a little concerned. Where are you going?"

"It's not that sort of trip."

"It's not the sort of trip with a destination?"

"Don't do that," Nate said, frowning. "Don't make it sound stupid. I'm not stupid."

Taken aback, Chuck smiled that nervous, unfamiliar smile. "I didn't call you stupid. What do you need? How can I help you with this destination-less trip?"

"I don't need your help."

There was just a touch too much force in Nate's declaration, as if Chuck had touched a sore spot. "So you're just – what, saying goodbye?"

"Better than that. I'm asking you to come with me."

Once more, Chuck marvelled at the awesome power of words, arranged in a shocking way. And although Chuck saw suddenly how this conversation would spiral out of control and cause nothing but harm, the first, comforting thought that he had was of all those people he could never leave behind. It was as if he was finally growing roots, only to find his best friend wanted him to throw himself to the wind. The best friend he would have done anything for.

"What?"

Nate couldn't stop a grin forming on his face. "Come with me, man. You and me – a road trip. It's what we always wanted, isn't it? You should come."

Once the words were out there in the world, they were impossible to ignore. Chuck all but gasped at the sound of them. Glancing at Blair, who hovered protectively behind him, Chuck shook his head.

"You can't just leave New York," he said, avoiding the request.

"What's keeping me here?"

"Your family, school - "

"My family is going to hell with or without me here. And we have about ten minutes of school left."

Chuck looked around desperately for something to hold onto, for some incontrovertible truth, to be accompanied with an "ah-ha!" that would end this conversation without the inevitable admission that would mark the turning point in his relationship with Nate.

"Your family needs you," Chuck said feebly.

Nate spread his arms wide. "What family? My grandfather, who is embarrassed by me? Or my mother who blames all of this on me? Tell me, Chuck. Tell me what's keeping me here?"

Chuck had always prided himself on his refusal to back away from even the ugliest truths. He would wait until the last moment and strike with an unadulterated dose of reality. But he found it hard now, faced with the boy he had always looked up to more than anyone, to actually say the words that Nate was spoiling for him to say. And so all he could offer was a long, unbroken silence.

"Exactly," Nate said, flushed with triumph. "So come with me."

"I can't leave New York," Chuck said flatly.

"Why not? This is exactly what you have always done. Now I'm asking you to come with me. You're my best friend, right? So come."

It was cruel of him to want Chuck to say it aloud. Blair took a step closer, but was still unwilling to stand between them – a role she had once taken up willingly, eagerly as part of a sick power play. But now their dynamic was off, things had changed, and they had been fools to think that the realignment of their friendship would not come with consequences.

"I can't leave New York," Chuck said again.

That twisted look was back on Nate's face. "It's because of Blair, isn't it?"

"Yes," Chuck said quietly. "It's because of Blair. It's because I finally have a reason to stay in one place and you're asking me to leave. Because you can't stand that I have a family, that I have a _life_. Because I can't be your fuck-up anymore. And it kills you."

Finally the words had fallen out. It would have been impossible to retract them, even if Chuck had wanted to. But the fact of the matter was that he was furious at Nate for all those years when he had bested Chuck and expected him to just soldier on. And he was furious at Nate for making him choose.

"So that's it. We're done."

"Are we breaking up? Do you want your friendship bracelet back?" [1]

"Chuck," Blair said gently, reaching out to touch his arm, trying to diffuse the anger in his voice. But when he felt her warm presence, he shook her off. He would watch Nate leave his life without any buffer.

"Stay out of this," Chuck snapped at her.

Nate snorted to himself as Blair shrank back form his aggression. "Yeah. He's a keeper Blair, congratulations." He turned back to Chuck. "You really think you won't find a way to fuck this up? You really think you can change?"

"I _am_ changing." This said so quietly that it could have been meant for only Chuck himself to hear.

With a scoff, Nate shook his head. "Please, you're deluding yourself. And from now on you can delude yourself alone. Because I'm leaving your life, and we both know you'll find a way to alienate everyone else. Good luck, man."

"At least I'm trying. That's better than running away from my problems like a pussy," Chuck spat.

"Yeah – where could I have learnt that trick?" Nate turned around to walk away. "Have a great life, man."

"Have a safe fucking trip," Chuck shouted after him.

With Blair behind him, all they could do was watch as Nate strode down the street away from them. Blair's head was spinning with the altercation. It seemed that Chuck and Nate's friendship would not weather this, and Blair knew that Chuck's heart must be breaking. Filled with sympathy, she reached out to take him into her arms. "Chuck – I'm so sorry."

But once more, he pushed her away. "Just – don't. Can you just – can I just have five fucking minutes to myself? Or is that not allowed?"

"I just want to talk about it - "

"And I want five fucking minutes to myself!" She recoiled as if he had slapped her. Shaking his head, he ran a hand through his hair. "Just take the car. I need – you to just go."

And with that, he strode off in the opposite direction to Nate, leaving Blair to watch the only two men she had loved leave her entirely alone.

* * *

Long after most of the city had fallen into a restless slumber, Chuck knocked at the door of the person he hated most in the world.

When Aaron Rose answered the door, he had to fight the impulse to punch him in the face – and judging by Aaron's nervous expression, that was what he was expecting.

"What do you want?"

Chuck held himself back. He had been cruel to Blair that night, and he knew that he wouldn't be welcome if he visited her that night. So he had needed to find a new funnel for his guilt over leaving her in the street on a night that had stared out so blissfully. It was his first response to any situation: to shut down entirely from those around him. Although, honestly, all he had wanted to do was to crawl into Blair's lap and sob until the memory of Nate had receded from his conscious thought process. Why was that so hard to admit?

When Chuck didn't answer immediately, Aaron started babbling nervously. "I don't know what she told you, man – but it wasn't like that…"

"You do _not_ talk about Blair," he spat, slamming Aaron against the wall of his own hallway. Chuck noted grimly that he was less confident when faced with someone who wasn't half his size. But tonight's visit was not about violence. It was about retribution.

"What do you want," the artist all but sobbed.

"Well actually," Chuck said smoothly, letting Aaron drop to the floor. "I have a business proposal."

The man had the good sense to look suspicious. "What kind of business proposal?"

Chuck pulled a slim envelope out of his breast pocket. He noticed with a dull sense of satisfaction that at the sight of the fine lining of Chuck's jacket, Aaron fingered his own paint-speckled trousers. Clearly, there was an enjoyment of the finer things in life that could be used ot his advantage.

"What's this?"

"It's a check for $50,000. I'm buying one of your…pieces," Chuck said with an appropriate measure of disdain for the sculpture behind Aaron's back, which appeared to be made of Lego.

"What do you want in exchange?"

Chuck gave him a look suggesting that he found Aaron rather daft. "Well traditionally in the art world, you usually exchange money for an artwork, but you would be right in assuming that I don't want this junk in my house."

A flare of anger passed through Aaron's body at his jibe against his art. "So my question stands. What do you want?"

"I want you to leave the country – tomorrow – for at least a year. There will be another 50 grand waiting for you in London." Chuck smiled grimly. "I hear there is quite an art scene over there."

Aaron was tempted, but clearly mistrustful. "Why would you buy me off? Why not just blackmail me?"

Chuck smiled thinly. "Because Blair wants to protect Cyrus' feelings, and I just want to pretend that you do not exist. So this is the most expedient way to get you as far away from the United States as possible."

With a shrug, Aaron reached out for the check, but at the last minute, Chuck pulled away. "If you set foot in the States before the end of a year – or without warning me – it will be the last mistake you ever make."

Rolling his eyes, Aaron took his money. "You have yourself a deal."

Chuck smiled grimly. "Your flight's at 9a.m. The details are in the envelope. I'll send a car around in the morning."

As he turned to leave, Aaron grinned darkly to himself. "So I guess we know how much Blair's worth to you, now."

Chuck threw him one more death stare. "You should have bartered with me. I would have paid a hundred times that."

He left Aaron with that thought in his head as he descended once more into the dark night. Only this time, he was comforted by the fact he had set a plan in motion.

* * *

The next morning dawned bleak and wet, but Blair wanted to go to feed the ducks, so she braved the unseasonably cold weather to visit the place she had always been happiest in.

But when she had arrived at her lake, the miserable weather combined with her own grey mood had ruined the experience for her. She merely dumped the bread on the ground and stomped over to a park bench in order to brood over Chuck's desertion of her the previous evening.

If she could have lived the evening over again, there would have been so many things she would have done differently. She would have intervened before the conversation took that ugly turn. They would have met up with Serena and Dan, who had been mysteriously absent from the party, and over some dark chocolate soufflé, everything would have seemed less absolute. Or she would have held Chuck's hand through the whole ordeal. She could have chased after him, begged him to talk to her, instead of allowing him to walk away.

She had thought they were passed this. She would have alienated her family for a boy who stiffened every time she took his hand and who had once tried to convince her to have sex with him on a park bench. What on earth was she thinking?

He found her easily, of course. And he stood watching her for a while before he sat next to her, leaving a small space between them and staring out onto the flat body of water. His hand longed to reach out to touch her; he hadn't felt like himself since he left her side last night. But instead he ran his hands over the splintered surface of the park bench. He could sense Blair sending him concerned looks, but the sight of her served only to remind him of the ugly conversation with Nate and the worse way that he had left things with her.

Blair found herself staring at the ducks that waddled passed them. For some reason, her mind had drifted to the Hamptons, when Serena and Nate had thrown themselves off a bridge into the cool water below. Blair had stood nervously, staring at where they disappeared underneath the water – certain that their bodies were going to be crushed on some hidden log or rock. And Chuck would stand with her. They had that in common then – a mutual worry for their friends. Or perhaps Chuck had wanted desperately to jump from the boardwalk, but hadn't been able to stand the thought of her nail-biting anxiety as she waited for him to surface.

Knowing Chuck, he hadn't wanted to see her indifference towards him compared to her worry over Nate and Serena.

Feeling a wave of sympathy, she put her hand over his as it explored the space between them. He gratefully took her hand in his and placed them both on his lap.

"I don't know what this feeling is," Chuck said suddenly. "With Nate. It's kind of like I'm disappointed in him."

"He didn't mean it," Blair said quietly. "What he said last night. He didn't mean it."

Chuck didn't respond to that. Instead he stared down at their joined hands. "I'm sorry I left you there last night."

"It's okay," Blair said unconvincingly.

"No, it's not. He was right, though. I'll find any number of ways to fuck things up with you."

Blair smiled grimly at him. "And I'll find any number of ways to crowd you. We aren't perfect, Chuck. No one is. And that's what that feeling is. You've always thought Nate was perfect. So now that he's shown how imperfect he is, you feel cheated."

He would never understand why she pulled away from him in those moments when she said the most amazing things to him, but she did, every time. It was as if she was certain that he was going to pull away and merely wanted to beat him to the punch. So when she pulled away from him now, he braced himself for a compliment that he didn't think he deserved. She even pulled her hand away.

"But you don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?"

She ducked her head down. "Nate's starting to see his unchallenged perfection unravel, and to see the friend he always relied on to be nothing more than a womanising degenerate become something greater than he has ever been, he's angry at himself. And you're scared because now you don't have Nate to look up to."

"God, you make me sound like such a douche bag," Chuck said, trying to make light of this lofty view of him that he was not yet comfortable with. Still, she avoided his eyes.

"You shouldn't be scared. You're a better man than Nate will ever be, because you've worked to become someone – better. You're a kinder man than Nate will ever be, because you have to fight your impulse to be cruel. And I love you."

Chuck didn't say anything. Instead, he filled the comforting, if illusory, gap that had been between them and put his arm around Blair. Pulling her close to him, he waited until she melted against him, shifting to accommodate his shoulder. They watched the children playing for a while, until Chuck suddenly kissed her on the cheek.

"Thank you," he said quickly.

Blair just smiled to herself, remembering young bodies in flight before they landed in the cold water.

* * *

Serena had always loved the train station: the intersection and departure of lives, the unabashed promise of adventure mingled with the sweetness of a long-awaited return. The last time she had been here, though, she had been wrung out, exhausted and more than a little bit terrified. She felt more level-headed now, although things had spiralled out of control. There were things to do – and more importantly, things to find.

Nate put a comforting arm around her, itching to throw himself to the winds. "Are you ready to go?"

She looked at him for a long time, and for the life of him he would never be able to shake the feeling that she was seeing through him. Perhaps she sensed how desperately lonely he was, how impatient he was for her to nod so that they could climb on the train that had brought her back to New York years ago. She had run away before, so perhaps she was warier than he was – or she was wearier. Although he would never know precisely what she was thinking at that moment, her beautiful hair gleaming even in this dingy light, her usually smiling mouth pressed into a thin line, he would always remember the defiant hold of her chin, her resolute stance.

Because they knew each other, in some fundamental way: they were both wild creatures that had been locked up for too long. For Nate, it had been a prison of his own making, and for Serena it would be a prison built out of the substance of a past denied.

It was easy, now – surprisingly easy – to leave. Nate knew that he had been cruel to ask her; he knew that she had much more to give up than he did. But he also knew that he had only woken up the impulse that had always been inside of her.

As the train whistled, Serena nodded. For now, the curtain was closing on New York; it was time to leave this place and find far-off places full of people they had not yet met. Both of them knew that it would have been a sweeter parting if Chuck and Blair had been there – if Eric had not been angry at Serena's desertion. There were also those who had been betrayed: Dan and Vanessa. But stronger still was the pull of the unknown: of a brother undiscovered out there.

"Come on, Serena," Nate said gently, his hand on the small of her back, sensing that she needed a slight push. "They'll all be okay…Chuck and Blair will make sure of it."

The inescapable reality was that although Serena and Nate would be missed – cursed, probably, and dissected in the cyberspace – and Blair and Chuck would look after all of the rest. Neither Nate nor Serena were entirely sure when it had happened, but somehow Blair and Chuck had become the stable points of the universe. But with those two so close together, with their very molecules combining, Serena no longer worried that either of them would fall apart. They had each other now, and although it stung to be replaced, particularly in Blair's life, it was a liberating feeling, not to be depended upon.

With a shuddering smile, Serena pulled her handbag over her shoulder as Nate picked up her suitcase. No matter what doubts she had, no matter how temporary the release of running from a place, she had been born for the open road. Leaning her head on the window, smiling fondly at Nate, Serena spoke quietly, as if addressing the air.

"Yeah. I'm ready."

* * *

[1] To steal Logan's line from _Veronica Mars._ Yet another bad boy on my list.


	12. Chapter 12: The Long Grass of Routine

**Chapter Twelve:** **The Long Grass of Routine **

_Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head,_

_so I went to bed, dreaming of you hard, hard, woke with your name, _

_like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables_

_like a charm, like a spell. _

_Falling in love_

is glamorous hell; the crouched, parched heart

_like a tiger ready to kill; a flame's fierce licks under the skin._

_into my life, larger than life, beautiful, you strolled in. _

_I hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine,_

_in my camouflage rooms. You sprawled in my gaze,_

_staring back from anyone's face, from the shape of a cloud, _

_from the pining, earth-struck moon which gapes at me_

_as I open the bedroom door. The curtains stir. There you are_

_on the bed, like a gift, like a touchable dream._

- "You" by Carol Ann Duffy

* * *

Chuck had always been visited by grotesque, vivid dreams, which seemed more vibrant than life. They would cling to his chest when he tried to awake – they would pull him down to their level. And so waking up became a battle. But that morning the transition from sleeping to waking was as smooth and routine as he always imagined it should be: the way it had sounded in children's poems and lullabies.

When he opened his eyes and saw Blair sleeping next to him, he did not need to take his bearings. Of course she was next to him; he only woke like this when she was there. Chuck was convinced that she was the cause for his peaceful nights; it must have been some strange witchcraft that allowed her to invade his sleeping mind and fill them with the softest images that she could find. For once, night time had become a time of rest.

Whether in a dream or next to him in reality, she was breathtaking, and one of his favourite morning activities had become the careful examination of her sleeping face.

"Seriously Chuck," she said without opening her eyes. "Stop staring at me."

And one of Blair's favourite morning activities had become complaining about it. He was never quite sure how she knew without looking that he was watching her, so he simply added it to the growing list of things that perplexed him about her.

There were two obvious things that the real Blair had on her dream equivalent: infinitely more attitude, and the real, physical presence that he could reach out and touch. And so he reached out to touch her face, to assure himself that she was really there, next to him and to allow that burgeoning hope that she would stay with him to gain even more power over him. The instant he touched her, her eyes flew open.

"I can always tell when you're doing it. It makes me so self-conscious."

"I was dreaming of you," he said seriously. "But it turned out that the dream was real."

And even though he had uttered those words every day this week, they never stopped taking her breath away and leaving her struggling for composure. She had heard romantic words in the past; she had even felt romanced during her long relationship with Nate. But surely nothing in the past and no sentence she could conceive of in the future could come close to the sweetness of those words on Chuck's lips. Knowing that the thought of her, the shape of her, the touch of her pervaded him to such an extent that dream and reality were both about her…that was a category of romance that she had never come across before.

And still, Chuck just stared.

"We should get up," she said quietly, turning onto her side. "Eric has that science project before school. Especially if you want to have that chat with him."

But Chuck had fallen into one of those moods of his, and she knew that her words would fall on deaf ears as he traced the line of her cheek and the slip of her nose. She had given up trying to stop his exploration of her body, even on those days when she felt like she might burst with the awkwardness of her skin and the unflattering way her clothes fell.

She never doubted the sincerity of his gaze and his desire, but her mind boggled at what he could find so staggering about such a flawed surface. Even though she loved sleeping in his bed and waking up next to him, she hated that he saw her naked face, before she'd had the chance to put make up on, that he could touch her legs before she had shaved them in the shower.

One morning she had tried to crawl out of bed without his noticing, so she could wash her face, brush her teeth, run a razor over her legs and climb back into bed looking like a Dolce and Gabbana advertisement. She only made it to the door of the bathroom before his arms had wrapped around her waist from behind and his breath was on her ear.

"Where do you think you're going, Waldorf?"

Blair pulled at his roaming hands. "Chuck don't – I'm so gross in the morning."

She'd felt him swallow next her shoulder, and inhale the scent of her skin after a night's sleep before she'd had the chance to put perfume on. In spite of herself, she'd turned her head to meet his lips, but he pulled back teasingly.

"But the morning is the best bit. Because it's all mine. And no one else gets to see you like this," he'd said quietly, pulling a strap of her nightdress down her shoulder. "Because you're mine. Right?"

That note of vulnerability again, no matter how many frustrated times she told him, he never seemed to believe her. Misjudging his mood she rolled her eyes. "Well you and a very select group of eligible bachelors."

With a speed that scared her, he turned her around and pressed her against the wall next to the bathroom door. With his eyes boring into her, with an intensity that Nate had never been capable of, breathing through his nose, he'd pressed close to her. "Tell me that you're mine," he'd ordered emphatically. In spite of herself, Blair could feel her body responding to his possessiveness, to his thinly veiled jealousy.

"You know I'm yours."

And with that he'd lifted her off the ground and there against the wall he'd kissed her with so much urgency that she forgotten to worry about her lank hair and her un-brushed teeth.

How was it possible to walk down the street and for people not to notice the intensity between them? It kept her awake at night, fearful of the day that she would not be enough and that he would leave her. It had made him more intense, seemingly terrified that at any moment she would walk away. It couldn't be healthy; she knew it wasn't healthy. But those were thoughts for someone who wasn't drunk on him, for someone who didn't want desperately to erase every horrible thing that had happened to him, and fill him with happiness.

In their short time together, Blair had learnt that her fairytale dreams had been foolish. She had always imagined that the person playing opposite her in these scenes would be someone like Nate – that the appearance was what was important, that the right necklace would complete the glamour of scene. Now she had stumbled upon the kind of love that they write about in books, in films. And the reality was that the scene didn't matter in the least; it was just the yearning, and terror, and blinding passion that were important. It was all she could see.

"I was dreaming of you, but it turned out that the dream was real." He'd said it each day this week. And her response, always silent, had been the same each morning:_ I always dreamt about you, before I knew who you were_.

"I suppose we can take a few more minutes, although we might have to shower together," she said with a smile.

"That's…disappointing," Chuck murmured before covering her body with his own.

* * *

Over seven hundred miles away, Serena jerked awake to find Nate sleeping next to her and possibly the ugliest painting she had ever seen.

"Oh," she said quietly.

Possibly the most disturbing part of the scene was the fact that she wasn't surprised to find herself in yet another motel, this time in Chicago. The only difference was this growing sense of disappointment every time Nate virtuously stayed on top of the covers when they shared a bed. He never strayed across the wide divide between them, and even as she assured herself that this was the right thing – she had, after all, not even told Dan she was leaving, let alone breaking up with him before she departed – she couldn't stop the nagging sense of disappointment.

Of course, Nate wasn't the reason she was here, over seven hundred miles from her friends and family. But he was the only connection she had to it.

"Hey," he said quietly.

It was the strangest thing: they always woke up within minutes of each other. Serena mused that their time together thus far could have been a catalogue of strange similarities, of tacit compatibilities that neither could acknowledge. That first day, on the train, she had discovered that they both liked travelling backwards, that both of them liked to put their crisps in cheese sandwiches, that both of them read the last line of a book before starting again from the beginning.

"It's the only way to know that the main characters are going to be alive at the end," they'd both said at the same time.

And the list had grown. Both of them felt the urge to run down streets for no apparent reason. They both liked making sure that their feet walked in perfect synchronisation. They both ate Hershey Peanut Buttercups as if they were at the bottom of the food pyramid. And both of them could sleep anywhere.

It was comforting really. These tiny facts that one could collect by being in close proximity to each other. And it countered the growing sense that they didn't know each other anymore, that they might as well be strangers.[1]

To think, Serena had once known him better than anyone – better than Blair even, maybe even better than Chuck. There had been a time when Serena and Nate would sneak out of whoever's holiday house the four of them had set up camp in. They would walk down to the beach in the moonlight and Serena would fill her stomach filled with butterflies as they passed a bottle of vodka back and forth, chasing waves back to the ocean and then running away in mock terror when the direction of the waves shifted and bared down on them once more.

"I still have no idea how Chuck and Blair didn't find out where we were going at night," Serena shook her head.

"They just thought we were the worst morning people ever," Nate grinned. "After spending all night drinking on the beach. Or in your case, acting out _Dirty_ _Dancing_."

"It's a classic," Serena objected, punching him on the shoulder. "And I was doing you a favour; Patrick Swayze is just sex on legs – being under his tutelage is good for men everywhere."

He caught her hand as yet another train pulled away from another station. They had spent no more than a few days in each city they visited. "I hear what you're saying, but was it _really_ necessary for you to make me stand in the water so you could practice your running jump dance move?"

Serena blushed, pretending to ignore the fact that Nate was still holding her hand, long after she had given up on her light punches. "Well, at that stage of my life I had a few Nate Archibald related fantasies relating to _Dirty Dancing_. What? I had a crush. Laughing at me about it is just cruel."

He dropped her hand and grinned. "Hey, I wasn't complaining at the time. It's just a good thing we were in waist-deep water, or you would have gotten an eyeful of how 'not-complaining' I was…_Ow_ – come on, Serena that one actually hurt. Oh now you're going to pay…"

For the life of her, she couldn't understand why her heartbeat quickened when he easily overpowered her and his face was close to hers. Far from the city, far from her responsibilities to school and to the people in her life, it was so easy to remember the reason that she had nursed such a crush on him back in the heady days of their youths: he was light. It wasn't stupidity, as Chuck always intimated. Nor was Nate boring, like Blair secretly thought. But rather, Nate was all those gleaming, light-hearted things that Serena herself loved.

Filled with the tender images of their childhoods, Serena set herself to getting reacquainted with one of her oldest friends. And for his part, Nate did everything he could to help her find out information on her allusive half-brother.

It seemed that there was nothing but disappointment in this endeavour. Each time they left another dreary adoption centre, Serena would find her face clouding and her spirits wavering. Nate would give her a little smile, throw his arm over her and say something like, "you're amazing for doing this."

It would be hard to swallow for a moment, but she would hide her reaction with some foolish comment like, "you know what looks even more amazing? That tour bus to the Liberty Bell", before she would grab his hand and race him to whichever tourist attraction caught their eyes that day.

He was happy to have the company, she told herself. But sometimes, as they ate popcorn for dinner and danced at obscure little bars in dusty corners of new cities, when Serena was enjoying herself too much, she would be filled with guilt. And she would once more have to sternly remind herself that this was not a joyride.

Because she knew that even though she was searching for her brother, she was really spending her time re-discovering Nate.

* * *

It shouldn't have been hard, Eleanor mused. It shouldn't have been hard to pick up a telephone and call Harold. But for some reason, every time she made her way to the phone, some unrelated annoyance would demand her attention or she would remember a more pressing task and would promise herself to return to the task of calling her ex-husband later.

But with each day Eleanor sensed her daughter slipping away from her – faster, more self-consciously. All of the vigour that Blair usually threw into her own life, all of the focused attention with which she performed every task, whether great or small – all of Blair's concentration was focused upon _That Boy_. And after the unmitigated disaster that was Chuck's last visit, Eleanor knew that Blair's priorities had rearranged themselves so that Chuck Bass's name stood at the very top of any list.

Despite her humbug attitude to the match, Eleanor was acquainted with the fervour of a new relationship. She knew that Blair was a particularly starry eyed romantic, and so she waited for her daughter to strike some kind of balance. But there was an intensity about the connection between the children that would not be challenged even by Eleanor's own influence.

And so eventually, she had done that which she didn't want to do: to admit to Harold Waldorf that she had lost control of their perfect daughter.

When she first called the house, Roman had answered and Eleanor almost hung out instinctively. But she caught herself in time, and instead conversed like an adult with the man who had stolen her husband (rolling her eyes at a bemused Cyrus all the while) before finally dragging Harold onto the phone.

"I didn't want to call you," Eleanor had said sniffily. "But I think that I have reached the end of my influence with Blair. I just…I think I need some back up."

There had been a long loaded pause as Harold took in all the details of his wanton daughter's sex life. From a great distance, it was difficult to immediately conjure the images that Eleanor was evoking. It was hard for him to remember that his baby girl was now eighteen years old, with fully functioning relationships outside of her parents. He remembered Chuck Bass from his old life: trouble by all accounts. But since committing the worst social sin he could have imagined – _running off…with a man no less_ – Harold liked to imagine that he had somehow moved passed the parochial attitudes of the Upper East Side.

After all, he was French now.

But the fact of the matter was that Eleanor would never have called him, never have dreamed of calling him, unless she was honestly worried that Blair was throwing away her future. He also had enough of a fatherly instinct to frown upon the notion of her daughter living in sin with a decadent miscreant who had been in jail more times than Harold had watched _Law and Order_. And so, from some deep recess of his mind, Harold remembered what it was to be a parent.

"Tell me what you need," he said simply.

* * *

"Oh god," Eric said when he walked into the dining room, shielding his eyes. "Tell me everyone has their clothes on."

"Don't worry, brother mine," Chuck smirked. "It's PG-13 all the way at the breakfast table."

Scarcely daring to believe them, Eric inched his fingers open to see Blair sitting on Chuck's lap at the dining room table – both of them mercifully fully clothed.

For the life of him, Eric would never have imagined that Chuck and Blair would take up the role of his pseudo-parents, and yet there was no denying that they had. With Serena's recent, stinging desertion and Lily's subsequent mental collapse, Blair and Chuck seemed to have formed a tacit agreement to take upon themselves the tonnage of responsibility that remained.

"Eric," Blair smiled, extricating herself from Chuck's arms. "If you're not doing anything after school, I was thinking you and I could go shopping. Calvin Klein's new line is out and even if it is as bad as the last collection, there are bound to be some models around we could check out."

"Hey," Chuck protested as Blair busied herself putting food onto a plate for Eric. "I'm right here."

"And you're welcome to come too," she whispered, running her hand through his hair as she breezed passed. "But just don't tell any of the models you're my boyfriend…"

With that, Chuck grabbed her around the middle and pulled her onto his lap once more. Running his hands up her arm and under her chin, he moved until his breath could be felt against her skin. "Only if you promise to think about me the whole time."

Eyes basically rolling back into her head, she moved her lips so that they almost touched the side of her mouth. "It'd be impossible not to."

"Eggs with a side of soft-core porn," Eric dead-panned. "Just what every sixteen year old dreams of."

He couldn't help but find their physicality nauseating this morning, probably because it had been at least a week since Jonathon had last contacted him. Eric found himself wondering how it was so easy for his (ex?)boyfriend to extricate himself from Eric's life. But looking the empty space that Jonathon had left, Eric was starting to realize that his first love was taking its dying breaths. He knew that his moping was not going unnoticed by Blair or his step-brother. Feeling the familiar pang that came to his stomach whenever he saw how crazy Blair and Chuck were for each other, Eric was not in the mood to be gentle with them.

"Thanks for the offer, Blair," he said in an unusually clipped tone. "But I'm hanging out with Jenny this afternoon."

Trying to hide her hurt expression, Blair affected a fake smile. "Oh, okay. Well that sounds like a good idea. I might go and check it out anyway and pick things out I think you'd like."

Eric felt a slight tingle of regret at Blair's crestfallen expression and Chuck's glare of rebuke. Although he had always prided himself on his open-mindedness, Eric could not stand the way Chuck and Blair seemed to be secretly enjoying their tenure as heads of the household. If they wanted to play make-believe family, then Eric would not be making it easy for them.

"I should go," Eric said flatly, noticing once more that they were exchanging those secret, meaningful looks that meant they were reading each other's minds.

"We'll accompany you," Chuck said smoothly, quickly downing his espresso, following after Eric as he hurried to the elevator.

"Let me just quickly check on Lily," Blair said quietly, noting the palpable shift in mood when the Van Der Woodsen matriarch's name was mentioned. Part of her knew that there was no point checking: Lily would be as comatose as always. But it was part of her morning ritual, to enter the musty room where Lily would lie, drowning in her white sheets. Every morning, they would have the same conversation.

"What day is it?"

Blair would tell her and see the same surprise registering on her face.

"Have you heard from Serena?"

"No," Blair would say gently, feeling the familiar twinge that her best friend had deserted her, yet again. Perhaps Blair had developed a thicker skin, or maybe she was getting used to being disappointed, but this time Serena's absence didn't sting quite as much as the last time. But, really, she knew the reason. Her entire soul was committed to looking after Chuck, to fighting Chuck's battles, and to making sure that Lily's fading presence didn't interfere with his life. Ever since that night at her mother's house, when Chuck's glinting cufflinks had moved her with their singular loneliness, Blair had vowed to make his life easier. That vow had become the substance of her life – and her own mother, in their short meetings and even shorter phone calls, wondered at Blair's loss of focus, her loss of direction. Eleanor wrongfully blamed Chuck, when really it was Blair's choice entirely.

Even though Chuck formed the centre of her focus, the centre of her world, she couldn't help but wonder at Lily's mental state and why Serena would simply disappear with Nate. She was certain there must have been a reason, some kind of irretrievable, pressing reason. But if that were so, how could she not have called her best friend? What was so terrible that only Nate could help her?

In the few conversations they'd had about their missing best friends, Blair had noticed that Chuck was still furious at Nate. He saw their disappearance as just the latest in a string of irresponsible blonde moments that didn't warrant much consideration. As for the connection with Lily's strange condition, Chuck was stubbornly silent. Blair was almost certain that he knew something that she didn't, and it was driving her slowly insane.

Before taking her daily pilgrimage up those stairs, she sent Chuck another meaningful look, noting his imperceptible nod. They had agreed that it would fall to Chuck to figure out why Eric was pouting more than usual. Blair had formulated a perfect, subtle approach, which would involve no direct questions and would inadvertently cause Eric to spill his soul. Chuck, however, had other ideas.

When she left the room, Chuck leant back in his chair. "So, Blair wants me to find out why you're acting like you're PMS-ing."

Eric sighed. "Just because I don't have the emotional range of a wet mop doesn't make me a woman."

Chuck smirked at him. "Actually, that's exactly what it makes you. Come on, Eric. With all the sighing that you've been doing recently, I'm starting to wonder whether you were cast as Ophelia in a queer version of _Hamlet_."

"We really have to start keeping those books away from you until you learn how to reference subtly," Eric muttered.

"Come on. The sooner you get it off your chest, the sooner Blair will get off my back about it."

"You are so whipped," Eric observed. "Look it's not a big deal. Jonathon just hasn't been answering my calls. I'm starting to think that he's trying to blow me off – and no, not in the good way," he said, seeing where Chuck's mind was going.

But Chuck was frowning at him. "Jonathon has been screening your calls?"

Eric shrugged, half-amused at Chuck's serious expression. "Apparently so."

"Well that is unacceptable," he said darkly.

"Oh god. Not that voice. Chuck – I absolutely forbid you from taking out a hit on my…possibly ex…boyfriend."

Chuck unwillingly nodded. "Who does the little up-start think he is? What happened?"

Eric shrugged helpless, still pained by the turn of events. "He's been acting distant recently, but it just got worse this week. First he said he was busy, then he said he was out with friends. And then he stopped answering altogether." With another heavy sigh, Eric shrugged helplessly. "I really love him, but I think it's over."

"Oh, it's not over until _you_ decide it's over," Chuck said solemnly. "What have you tried so far?"

"Oh you know," Eric said earnestly. "Mix tapes, poetry, a website dedicated to things I love about him, candy-grams…"

"Stop, please god stop," Chuck cried, holding up his hands. "You know what your problem is? You're too nice. And you're forgetting the basics."

Eric frowned at Chuck who was balancing on the back legs of his chair. "What do you mean?"

"You know what the difference between dating a woman and dating a man is?"

"More leg hair?"

"Yes, but that's not what I meant," Chuck leant in conspiratorially. "You have a tactical advantage; we already know everything about guys. So I ask you – what is the sure fire way to get a man's attention?"

Eric cocked his head to the side. "With Jonathon your best bet is probably show tunes."

"Wrong. Just like any man, jealousy is the key. Your problem is that you're being too available. You have to cool it right down."

"No offence, Chuck," Eric said doubtfully. "But except with Blair, you've never really showed any ability in interpersonal relationship. Male, female – you name it, you're inept at it."

"Maybe," Chuck conceded as Blair reappeared. "But you ask Blair and she'll give you the same advice."

"Ask Blair what?" she said in a bemused voice, before settling behind Chuck with her arms around his neck.

"Jonathon seems to have it in his head that things are over between him and Eric," Chuck explained.

Eric couldn't help but smile at the look of outrage that exactly mirrored Chuck's. "Rubbish – it's over when we say it's over!" Chuck grinned smugly at Eric as Blair went on. "What you want to do is play hard to get – you walk passed him, look him up and down - "

"Make a list of the flaws in his outfit in your head," Chuck interrupted.

"Oh yeah, definitely," Blair enthused. "That makes it heaps easier to _really_ look unimpressed. Then flirt with the hottest guy you can find."

"Ryan Simpson," Chuck offered.

Blair shook her head. "Not gay. Tom Anderson?"

"That could work. Or Will…what's his name…Largier?"

"No, too jockey – we want someone cool as well. Jonathon is an arty type, he'll be more intimidated by a more soft-cock-rock sort of hot. Maybe we can get someone from college? Anyway, it's not important; we'll find someone. Just play it cool and we'll have him begging for it within a few days," Blair finished confidently. "Then, when he calls you screen him, wait a few hours and call him back and just say you were busy. Then we leak to Gossip Girl about all the fabulous parties you've been going to. If everything works out, you won't even want to get back together with him."

"She's the master," Chuck smiled at his stepbrother. "If you don't take my word for it, then take Blair's."

Eric shook his head at the two-headed Chuck-and-Blair monster that sat at the table opposite him, grinning Cheshire cat grins and looking almost painfully perfect. "There is something wrong with both of you."

* * *

Serena checked her phone for possibly the eighteenth time in the last twenty minutes. Nate rolled his eyes. "What is it going to take to get you to stop looking at that thing?"

"A phone call from Nancy Keagan from Downtown Adoption Agency?" Serena deadpanned.

Nate immediately felt guilty for his narky comment. Putting a companionable hand on her arm, he met her eyes – which had turned amber in the firelight of _The Violet Room_. "She'll call," he said confidently.

"How do you know?"

Watching the way the flames played across her face, creating shadows where light usually dwelled was captivating to him – so much so that it took an instant for him to realize that she had asked him a direct question.

"Because she saw you – she saw how honest you are, how much you care…how you're doing all this…you know…for love," he finished lamely.

Serena ducked her head and regarded Nate from under her eyelashes, remembering how strong he had been in that depressing office. As Nancy had spoken to them about their problematic request, Serena's eyes had settled on the bland walls of the adoption agency's office. She had wondered why it was that these centres of adoption insisted on decorating without the slightest vestige of joy. Surely, it would have been possible to make rooms like these places of light: to dwell upon the positive side of this whole process. Because it was hopeful, really, to know that there were people out there with a capacity of love that was so great that they would take in the children of other people to warm and shelter and raise.

And then, Nancy had made that stinging remark: "Basically I think you're doing this for incredibly selfish reasons."

Serena hadn't been able to think of a thing to say. But she needn't have worried; Nate leapt to her defence: "You don't know her – you don't know us – so why don't you keep your opinions to yourself?"

It wasn't necessary to look at the woman, who seemed to know that she had over-stepped a boundary. Serena found herself looking instead at Nate's strong profile, at his narrowed eyes and his stubborn jaw. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and Serena couldn't help but notice how strong his tanned arms were. His entire bearing was ferocious and defensive. For the first time since entering this office, she felt secure. And he was the reason.

"I'm sorry," Nancy had said, quietly. "That was inappropriate. I just see a lot of best intentions turn to worst outcomes in this office."

"We understand," Serena had murmured.

Thinking back now, Serena realized that she wasn't entirely certain when she and Nate had become a "we". But somewhere along the way – in Philadelphia or maybe in Boston – the differentiation in their identities had faded. It was as small as the shift from "what do you want to do today?" to "what are we doing today?" and it seemed silly to even take note of it. But as they left the adoption agency, Serena smiled at Nate's triumphant look.

Presently, Nate looked around the room, which could have been lifted from the pages of a nineteenth century novel. There was no sign for _The Velvet Room_: no more than a light bulb in the street outside.

"Chuck would love this place," Nate sighed.

Serena nodded fervently. "Have you spoken to him?"

"You mean since we had a bitch fight outside Penelope's house?" Nate asked glumly. "No."

"I haven't spoken to Blair either," Serena admitted, sipping her martini. "The missing people thing – that's the hard part. Sometimes you miss people so much that it seems like you could die with the misery of it. But the not contacting them part is easy. Why do you think that is?"

Nate shrugged, and Serena thought for a moment that he wouldn't respond at all. But, his eyes settled moodily on the fire once more. "I don't know. I miss hanging out with Chuck, although I had started missing that a long time ago. But I couldn't call him. I mean – what would he say? He'd probably tell me I was being a selfish prick. It's sad not being with friends, but it's easier to miss them when you don't have their voices in your ear telling you that you shouldn't have left."

It was possibly the longest speech Nate had ever made. Serena pursed her lips, thinking about Dan and the numerous times she had tried to dial his number, but had thought better of it. "Because it's impossible to explain yourself," she mused. "Because you can't narrate the things that happen when you're running. You can't explain why you needed to leave them behind. And you can't explain what's happening to you now."

It was possible that Serena meant something other than what she was saying. With a strangely penetrating look, Nate frowned at her. "And what is happening now?"

Serena couldn't think of an answer, and so she simply looked at his angelic face. It was a quiet bar; the Blackberry crowd tended to frequent the larger, ostentatious bars around Chicago. This was a place of hidden spaces and silent thoughts. Nate seemed so content now, adopting her mission, escaping from those people who told him who he was, but somehow still reawakening who he had always been. And Serena found herself remembering who he had always been.

And in a single moment of jolting vertigo, their faces only inches apart, Serena and Nate came to a tacit conclusion. They hadn't kissed – not there at least. They had done nothing, really. They merely sat and watched each other, leaving so much unspoken.

When it was clear that Serena was not going to answer his question, Nate said in that nervous voice, "do you want to go back to the motel?"

Serena nodded silently.

She remained silent until the door of the motel closed. It was as if the click of the lock was a starting gun; they had attacked each other. And there followed the most impassioned, rip-each-other's-clothes-off-I've-waited-for-so-long sex that Serena could remember having. And Nate had fallen into a contented sleep shortly after.

Nonetheless, a few hours later, Serena found herself sitting in the moonlight on the window frame and looking out onto the melancholy parking lot. There was something sordid about the place, she realized, pulling the blanket, which she had found in a wooden chest in the corner of the room, closer around her shoulders. It was such a bland, anonymous place, this motel. And she knew that Nate revelled in the subversiveness of Serena Van Der Woodsen and Nate Archibald: slumming it. She knew that he found it exciting.

Her body was still thrumming from the force of the very physical encounter, which had begun the moment that they closed the door. And even though at the time it had seemed almost romantic, this heart-pounding frenzy that came upon them. But now, under the dim neon lights of the No Vacancies sign, Serena saw the scene in grainy, cheap film. Of course, it made her think of the Shepherd wedding and that first betrayal of Blair. Even though she and Nate were long over, Serena couldn't stop her mind from wandering back to her best friend, whom she had once more deserted.

_I miss you_, Serena thought into the night. But when it remained cool and silent, entirely unmoved by her mental message to Blair, Serena turned to regard Nate. In this depressing room, he was the only thing that gleamed with perfection. And so she sighed once before climbing into bed next to him, all the while trying not think about what lay ahead, and more importantly, what she had left behind.

* * *

Chuck hated lunch times the most; it was during these hours that he had to share Blair with the rest of the world.

He began by sitting behind her on the steps to the Met. That way, she could gossip with her friends while he ran his hands over her arms and occasionally interjected with a lewd comment or a whispered promise of delicious acts to come. From this elevated position, it was easy for him to stare smugly at Blair's minions, to compare them to her, to once more revel in the remarkable fact that she was his and his alone.

The dizzying pleasure that this brought him nearly counterbalanced the inane conversation. The scintillating topic currently under discussion was whether Iz's current pseudo-boyfriend had actually asked her on a date or whether they were trapped in an unendingly ambiguous friend zone. Chuck entertained himself by kissing Blair's neck as she tried to concentrate.

For her part, Blair was battling against her two favourite feelings: that of having Chuck's undivided attention and the feeling of her well-established domination of her peers. It would have been easier, perhaps, if Chuck hadn't chosen this particular moment to start reminiscing about watching her get dressed this morning, whispering his views into her ear. Only Chuck Bass could manage to make the process of selecting matching pumps erotic. Blair knew that her face was reddening, and she hated that her friends could see her embarrassment. She had imagined that having Chuck near her during these conversations with the girls would have reminded them of her superiority – in the same way that an expensive piece of jewellery would have. It had always been that way with Nate. He was a walking reminder to them that she was cherished and they were not.

But Chuck, of course, refused to sit quietly with a brooding gaze. He resented every intrusion into their time together. And he wasted no time in making a complete spectacle of them, no matter how many times her hand apologetically swatted at his. Part of him felt a thrill of triumph each time he pressed against the boundaries that Blair had put up for them during these interactions with her friends. But he knew that he was disappointing her; he knew that to some extent it was an insult to her carefully polished life when he refused to play his role.

"And so then at the end of last night he kissed me - "

Hazel considered Iz carefully. "Was it like an upside down _Spiderman_ kiss? Or was it more like kissing a brother?"

Blair rolled her eyes. "You'd have more experience in the latter I'm sure."

"How very Mississippi of you," Chuck murmured, putting his hand on Blair's leg before she forcefully pushed it away. He knew that his presence there was unwelcome; Blair's every gesture was a silent rebuke. But he also knew that she would never send him away. And so he was left with a confusing puzzle: why did he insist of running her time with her girlfriends? Why was it impossible for him to give her a few minutes by herself, far from his family dramas, which filled her life at the moment? He simply couldn't understand what it was that Blair was doing here. He didn't understand why it was important to her that she keep this group of bitchy women close to her, admiring her. And so he sat arrogantly, glaring at them and making snide remarks.

"It was on the cheek," Iz said sadly.

"Well, maybe he's old-fashioned," Hazel said compassionately. All those present knew that at any moment the old friends could turn on each other, but at those most depressing moments, more sympathetic ears could not be found.

"Please," Chuck drawled. "He basically handed you a copy of _He's Just Not That Into You_."

"Not everyone is a complete skeez," Hazel countered. "Maybe some guys don't have to screw every girl in sight – no offence Blair."

"Oh, none taken," Blair muttered sarcastically.

"Let me put it in language you understand," Chuck said with a grim smile. "Unless you are in fact a blood relative and this guy has a more traditional view of keeping it in the family, then they only conclusion to draw is that he does not have any interest in getting anywhere closer to your anatomy."

The other girls exchanged meaningful looks: this was the outspoken act of aggression that they had been waiting for. He felt Blair shift uncomfortably in the space between his legs. It was a familiar look; it was one that portended mutiny. Chuck couldn't help but smirk, waiting with bated breath to hear what they had to say for themselves.

"Blair," Penelope said in a rush. "We need to talk to you about something."

Blair raised an eyebrow, sipping her latte. "Well, I'm right here, so please go right ahead."

"It's about…your boyfriend," she said awkwardly.

"Look, B," Hazel added. "It's just not working – this whole, Chuck sitting with us thing."

"Are you serious?"

Chuck stood up, stretching nonchalantly. "And here I so hoped I would be invited to your birthday parties."

"It's nothing personal," Penelope objected, glaring at him and adjusting her green scarf around her neck. "It's just that this is…you know…"

Chuck affected that effortlessly bored air that he carried around like an accessory. There was nothing more effective than giving an adversary the sense that they not only didn't frighten you, but also bored you senseless. "This is some kind of gender specific bonding ritual reserved for Wicca ceremonies far from the gaze of men?"

"Exactly," Penelope said with that tight smile of hers.

Chuck just yawned in response. Still standing over them, he noticed that Blair still faced her friends, arching her back away from him. He climbed down a few steps, smirking at her. "What do you say, Waldorf? Shall we go and find new ways to entertain ourselves?"

To Chuck's surprise, Blair hesitated. She glanced at her expectant friends. She hated the thought of it. She hated the thought of sending him away. Who would he call? Humphrey was playing soccer. Calling Eric, who he viewed as a younger brother, would have been too humiliating.

For a moment it seemed too much. It was too much for her to have to fill every space of his wide, lonely life. Although she loved him, she hated this feeling of disappearing into the fabric of Chuck – not because he was a bully or even because he had asked her, but because she couldn't stand him lacking anything. Because somewhere in those long nights sleeping next to him and watching his somehow childish face when it was finally at rest, she had realized that he alone in the world. And her heart had ached for him.

It ached for him now, as his smirk faltered and worry clouded his vision. With a reassuring smile Blair offered him her hand so that he could pull her to her feet. She turned around to look at the girls, smiling sweetly. "If you have a problem with Chuck, then we don't have to sit together at all." She walked down the steps with him, until she paused for an instant to regard them once more. "Oh and Iz? I think your priorities are all wrong. You should be wondering whether he's interested in you; you should be wondering when Penelope is going to tell you that she's sleeping with him."

"I don't think I've ever been this attracted to you in my life," he whispered, opening the limo door for her.

Blair just shrugged. Although she had clearly made her choice, the afternoon had been spoilt for her. Chuck couldn't have known what she was giving up when she walked away from them; in his idealized view of Blair, her status as queen was an assumption. So precious in his eyes, the notion that any other girl could take her place was a foreign and ugly thought – almost against nature. But Blair knew that this insult to her subjects would not go unpunished.

When she met his eyes, however, she instinctively covered her concerns with a smile. It was worth it, she reassured herself. He was worth it. And until Serena returned from wherever it was she had gone, he was all she had.

* * *

Vanessa had no idea why she was so nervous.

It had been so spontaneous – a suggestion made while leaning on the counter where she served coffees – but ever since she had been planning the evening meticulously. And she found, to her enduring surprise, that she spent most of her time trying to think of something to wear.

She was still sitting in a pile of her own clothes when Blair flounced into her bedroom. Blair had a habit of simply walking in – claiming that until Vanessa moved somewhere that qualified as a step above a "student hovel", she would not keep up the pretence that the place was anything more than a tent. Although she didn't like to admit it, the comment had wounded Vanessa. There was something galling about knowing how her apartment looked through Blair's eyes. And even though Blair hadn't imagined that her comment had stung, Vanessa had ignored her calls for a few days afterwards. Until, after an exhausting day of work, Vanessa had walked into her apartment to find a bunch of flowers with a small card reading: _May the roof above us never fall in / And may we good companions beneath it never fall out – B_. [2]

It was a surprise to find this sweet side of Blair, although they had never mentioned it to each other. And Blair continued to simply walk into Vanessa's house without knocking.

Today, Vanessa's eyes fell on Blair's Louboutin pumps, travelling up her legs to where a peacock blue dress brushed against her knees. In the crook of her arm, she held a black Birken bag, her hair uncurled, lying straight down her back but fixed in place with one of her signature headbands. All of this glamour for nothing more than a casual stroll to her friend's apartment in Brooklyn.

Blair raised an eyebrow. "Vanessa, I'm fine with you checking me out and everything, but you realize that if Chuck finds out, the threesome jokes will never cease, right?"

Without saying anything, Vanessa burst into embarrassed tears.

"Hey," Blair said embarrassed by her tears, but kneeling down regardless, putting an awkward arm around her. "Chuck's jokes aren't all that bad…"

Furious with her uncharacteristic display of female insecurity, Vanessa wiped angrily at her tears. She knew that she needed to explain, but couldn't quite find the words. The problem was that she had spent most of her adolescence rolling her eyes at girls who agonised over such things as what to wear to impress a boy. And yet here she was in that very situation – even worse, she had absolutely no experience with it.

"I – have – _nothing_ – to - wear," she said, gulping for air between words.

And Blair burst out laughing. Seeing Vanessa's look of betrayal. "I'm sorry…it's just that you sound exactly like…well…me."

Vanessa grimaced. "What am I going to do?"

Blair smiled warmly. "Who's the guy?"

"Which guy?"

But of course she wasn't going to get away with that. Blair affixed her with a scathing eye roll, saying nothing. Exhaling through her teeth, Vanessa grimaced once more. She knew that Blair would not approve when she found out that Dan had suggested that for one night they stop talking about Upper East Siders and instead act like them. He'd smiled mysteriously, saying that all she needed to do was wear something nice and he would find appropriate places for them to spend a night of decadence in the city. That was her one job – and so far she had failed completely.

"It's Dan," she finally said in a small voice, quickly adding, "it's not a date or anything – we're friends. Just he wants to go out for a night on the town and I have to wear something nice and I can't believe I have no clothes."

Blair looked at Vanessa's face for a long time. So it seemed that Dan had finally tired of waiting for Serena to contact him. Although Blair had never been the biggest Dan Humphrey fan, she couldn't say that she blamed him, after all these weeks, for moving on. Of course, knowing Humphrey, he wouldn't even realize that was what he was doing; he would make any number of excuses and wander into a situation of his own creating with absolutely no idea what was happening. Though, of course, it could be argued that Serena had created this situation for herself. Even Dan Humphrey had a limit – and surely when Serena had disappeared with Nate to God-knows-where, she had crossed the line.

"I don't want to hear anything about it," Blair said flatly.

"Blair," Vanessa started tentatively. "It's not like it's a date…I just…"

Blair held up her hand. "I don't want to hear about it, because I don't want to have to put a stop to it for Serena's sake."

Vanessa nodded, suitably cowed by Blair's cool words. Fingering one of the skirts that lay on her floor, she avoided looking into Blair's eyes. She knew that it was only by virtue of their slowly solidifying friendship that Blair wasn't planning on sabotaging the evening. Although she wasn't looking at Blair, she heard a faint rustle, which told her that Blair was getting up to leave.

"You know," Blair said suddenly. "You really should have told me."

"There's nothing to tell – I swear."

Blair looked at Vanessa's tear-streaked face, before pausing to take measure of her own feelings. Despite her loyalty to Serena, Blair found that she wanted nothing more than for Vanessa to stop sitting pathetically in a pile of her own clothes, racking her brain for something to where that would impress Humphrey. She liked Vanessa to be strong; even if Blair complained about her sanctimonious ways, she relied on Vanessa to be a moral compass. It was the thought of making her friend fit once more into the category of strong and unflappable that Blair smiled indulgently at Vanessa as she sat miserably on the floor. "No. I mean – my mother owns a fashion house…you may have heard of it?"

"You may have mentioned it once or twice – an hour."

"Well? How about we do a closet raid?"

And so they had passed a pleasant afternoon choosing a costume for Vanessa, and Blair had even helped her get ready. When Dan came to pick her up, Blair had hovered in the background. She was torn in several directions, but when Vanessa opened her front door, dressed in a beautiful gold dress with towering heels (all taken from Blair's voluminous closet) and gilded make up, Blair saw the way Dan's mouth fell open. She saw how his hand lingered at the base of Vanessa's spine. She saw the silent look of gratitude Vanessa gave him when they drifted out the front door, disappearing in a cloud of perfume.

Blair knew then, that she would not need to ask Vanessa about the evening. She could all but hear the orchestral swell that would accompany their tentative, craving kiss at the end of the evening. It was as inevitable as night following day.

Everything changes, Blair mused when she climbed onto Chuck's lap later that night, nuzzling his neck as he read on the couch. And all we can do is adjust ourselves to make room for the inevitable changes that life will bring. Breathing deeply, wanting his smell to invade her nose, Blair rested her head on his chest. The book was forgotten now.

"Hey," he said, almost shyly.

"Hello," she whispered back, kissing him.

There was only one thing that she would do anything to preserve, and it lay somewhere between his arms around her and the faint hammering of his heart that she could feel through the thin material of his shirt.

* * *

For Harold Waldorf, it was as if the entire city had changed. When he had called her daughter to tell her that he was in New York, he had secretly assumed that she would drop everything and rush to meet him. Although she had been thrilled to hear that he was in town, she had not materialized at his side. And when he asked to see her, she had paused for an instant.

"I would love to see you," she said hesitantly. "But I think that Chuck and I had plans this afternoon."

The sting of rejection was comparatively easy to hide, but it was more difficult to ignore the gleam of triumph in Eleanor's eye. Surely it was natural for Eleanor to feel slightly smug that the favoured parent had been cast aside in preference for the boyfriend. "Well then," Harold said with false enthusiasm. "He must come, too. And I'll bring Roman."

"_A double date?_" Eleanor mouthed sarcastically.

"A double date?" Blair said doubtfully.

"Why not?"

Blair agreed, unable to come up with a sufficient excuse.

And so, Harold, Roman, Eleanor and Cyrus spent a civilised morning lounging around the Waldorf penthouse, all secretly marvelling at their own maturity. Until, finally, the time came for Harold and Roman to leave for their double date.

"Are you coming at this with an open mind?" Roman asked in a whisper when they sat down in the Russian Tea Room.

"This is me, mind open," Harold said. Roman rolled his eyes, but squeezed Harold's hand lightly. For his part, Harold scoured the crowd, waiting for his beloved daughter to appear with this boy who was leading her astray.

When Chuck and Blair entered the Tea Room, Harold couldn't help but start at their appearance. He was amazed at how grown up Blair appeared. It was probably the plight of a parent who lived far across the earth from their child.

Her hair was longer than it had been when he'd last seen her. She wore a demure lilac dress, and for once she wasn't wearing a headband. Perhaps it was the pleasant warmth of the day that made her cheeks glow. Perhaps it was a trick of the light that made her eyes sparkle. But, Harold had his own suspicions that it was the boy who stood next to her, who guided her through the room with his hand entwined with hers.

Chuck Bass had changed since Harold had last seen him. His hair was smoothly parted in the perfect imitation of an old Hollywood film. He had always been a flamboyant dresser, but the fact that he now tried to match Blair was not lost on her father. He looked uncomfortably like a man, in Harold's opinion. Chuck had the haunted eyes of a man. And Harold had always known that Chuck had a man's hungry eyes.

Harold had been interested in Chuck Bass, more than any of Blair's other friends. Although he assumed that one day Nate Archibald would be his son-in-law, it was Bart Bass's son who captured his interest. Harold had lost count of the times he had discovered Chuck at some event or other, sneaking off with wine or a woman at best – with drugs and a whore at worst. But Chuck was never one to make a spectacle of himself; most of the time Harold caught only glimpses of him.

Possibly the first time he had actually spoken to Chuck one-on-one was at one of Bart's monthly brunches, when Chuck had been leaning against a column outside the main room. Harold had been breathless from a few stolen moments with Roman upstairs, already feeling the predictable combination of lovesick elation and shame that accompanied these encounters. He was surprised to see Chuck so far from the action. When he asked whether Chuck intended to come back into the party, the boy had smirked, drink in hand.

"Actually, I view it as more of a means to an end," Chuck had drawled. "When the brunch ends it means the party begins." There had been a brief pause, in which Chuck had taken in Harold's dishevelled appearance. "Although it appears that the party has already started for some."

Harold had been affronted, furious and unwillingly impressed by the boy's haughtiness.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

And then Chuck had levelled him with the most probing, worldly stare that it had taken Harold's breath away. At that moment, Harold was certain that Chuck knew his secret, that he knew every secret. It took all of Harold's strength not to shake the boy.

"You tell no one about these little theories of yours," he said coldly.

Chuck merely sipped his drink before re-entering the room. Harold followed after him, his heart somewhere near his throat, imagining this spoilt brat exposing those stolen moments of dewy passion that Harold had managed to find in these cold, marble walls. He planted himself next to Eleanor, receiving a bland smile in return, and watched Chuck walk over to Blair and some of her friends. He noticed idly that the childish bow that held Blair's hair in place seemed to match Chuck's. But what struck him more was the way Chuck leaned in to whisper in Blair's ear. Harold's heart constricted, but he still found that he was irritated by the way Chuck placed his hand around Blair's waist, almost touching her stomach. Blair swatted at his hand, but didn't put up much of a fight. Harold waited for the inevitable look of horror, but what he saw instead was a strange smile spreading across his daughter's face. It was an alien, spiteful type of smile. It was something that Harold had never seen on Blair's face before, and he blamed Chuck for it's appearance, even as he felt relief over knowing that Chuck would not be telling Blair the truth about her father.

Mask in place, then, for another day.

"Daddy," Blair said enthusiastically, catapulting herself into his arms and breaking his reverie. Harold smiled at the sight of her suddenly morphing back into the daughter from the woman who had walked into the teahouse. She even smiled warmly at Roman, kissing him gently on both cheeks.

Harold couldn't help but stare at Chuck, taking the measure of him. His face was completely impassive. He wasn't jumping up and down for joy at the sight of Blair interacting with them, nor was he frowning. He simply watched the family scene unfold with great focus, the hand that had been holding Blair's resting limply by his side. He waited for Blair to finish her greetings before extending his hand in the stiff formality of someone who assumed that the person he was meeting already hated him. Harold honestly was not certain whether that was the case or not.

"Mr. Waldorf," Chuck said smoothly, shaking his hand. "It is such a pleasure to see you again. And this must be Mr. LeClerc."

Roman proffered his hand enthusiastically, shooting Harold a look. "Roman and Harold, please. It is very nice to meet you. I have heard so much about you."

"Yes," Harold said darkly as Chuck pulled out Blair's seat for her, beating him to it. "Blair had quite a lot to say about you last summer when she came to our house after a week alone in Florence."

The shift in mood was palpable. Harold wasn't sure what had possessed him to make such an unsubtle comment; he knew that Roman would be furious with him later. But he couldn't help it. The memory of Blair's visit had stayed with him: had come to form the basis on Harold's views of her relationship with Chuck.

One morning, while Roman took Blair to look at the orchard at the back of their estate, Harold had entered Blair's room with a pang of guilt. He knew that Eleanor felt not compunction about invading Blair's privacy, but he had always fancied himself above such base acts. Of course, he didn't even know what he was looking for; Blair didn't keep a diary and even if she had, she was too secretive to leave it lying around.

Embarrassed by his actions, Harold had opened his daughter's suitcase. The instant he saw the various pieces of sexy underwear, he had snapped the case shut. The sight of those lacy undergarments – the corsets and bras – had thrown him. It was a glimpsing reminder that even his daughter had a secret world, full of needful desire. In his mind, he had simplified Blair's disappointment over Chuck's desertion. It was easier to cast it as no more than puppy love gone awry. But, of course, he had forgotten that it was Chuck Bass he was dealing with here. Obviously, their relationship was not as innocent as he had naively assumed. Once more, the arm around Blair's waist came to mind.

Watching Blair after that morning, he had suddenly recognised the look on her face. It was heartbreak, Harold realized. Blair was on the brink of adulthood, and because of Chuck she had experienced heartbreak.

"Daddy," Blair said after the uncomfortable silence, "that was a long time - "

"Blair," Chuck said in a low voice, sending her a look. Although he didn't say anything else, both Harold and Roman witnessed the silent conversation they had. With his eyes, Chuck asked her for forgiveness, but also urged her not to make him appear weak in front of her father by defending him. They saw Blair's eyes soften, saw her arm shift slightly, probably to put her hand on his thigh.

"It is fatherly protectiveness," Harold offered apologetically. "We care for Blair so much, to see her hurting is painful."

"It was the biggest mistake I've ever made," Chuck said quietly, staring at Blair's face. "And I regret it every day."

There was a beat of silence as Chuck and Blair's brown eyes met and electricity passed between them. They could have been alone; Harold and Roman were nothing more than pieces of furniture for all the attention they were paying. Without embarrassment, Blair leant across the small gap and kissed him on the lips.

It was only when Harold cleared his throat that they pulled away, embarrassed even by a comparatively chaste kiss. Knowing that he had lost himself for an instant, Chuck also cleared his throat and unnecessarily straightened his tie. He couldn't stop imagining that Harold could read his mind: that he knew every lustful thought Chuck had had about Blair, that he knew that in the limo Blair had smiled seductively, whispering, "don't be nervous", before kneeling before him and taking him into her mouth. Even as the conversation moved on, with Blair and Harold chattering brightly, Chuck was almost certain that Harold sent him sharp, probing looks.

"So, daddy," Blair said, smiling widely at him. "How long are you staying?"

It was definitely not Chuck's imagination when Harold settled a cold gaze upon him. "Oh, I think that we will be here for quite a while. Ample time for all of us to get to know each other."

The hint of threat was not lost on Chuck.

* * *

[1] A direct rip-off of "We Might As Well Be Strangers" by Keane.

[2] An Irish blessing


	13. Chapter 13:The Lady's Dressing Room

**Chapter Thirteen:**** The Lady's Dressing Room**

"_Gentlemen and ladies – how much those words are abused! What various twisted and deformed ideas are connected in different persons' minds with those words! What more common expression among the vulgar than 'He's quite the gentleman,' 'She is a real lady,' and yet what various meanings are attached to them? Sometimes high birth is denoted; sometimes perfect manners; sometimes merely wealth; the fact of living an idle life, or profuse liberality. This last is the idea of the poor, who almost invariably measure a man or woman by the tightness or looseness of their purse-strings, and term them gentleman or lady accordingly. Originally a gentleman was defined to be one who, 'without any title of nobility, wears a coat-of-arms, or whose ancestors have been freedmen.' By-and-by two other classes crept into the circle. A man could be a gentleman by office and in reputation as well as those who were born such."_

- "The Lady's Dressing Room", by Lady Colin Campbell

* * *

"Blair," Chuck said breathily. "Is it just my imagination or are you getting turned on by this?"

Blair continued showing feather-light kisses up and down his neck, her arm around his shoulders to balance her body on the bed where he sat with his shoes untied. "So what if I am?"

Chuck grinned, using both his hands to hold the book he had brought for her. He had been in a second-hand bookshop with Humphrey when he had found a copy of an old book of etiquette, _The Lady's Dressing Room_. He and Dan had laughed at the antiquated language and at the strict rules that governed every social interaction by Lady Colin Campbell's measure. And so he had purchased the beautiful old book, with its gold embossed title, and left it on his bed, where she slept almost every night, with a single rose on it. It had become a tradition of theirs to give each other surprising and thoughtful gifts – and somehow this became a new manifestation of their competitive gamesmanship. Who could find the most thoughtful gift? Who knew the other better?

And so, she had come to his house with a dewy smile and a dress bag to discover that he had won one more round of their game.

Chuck loved it when she got ready for events with him; he loved watching the way she performed those secret female preparations. He marveled at her ingenuity as she sprayed perfume in the air and walked through it. It must have been some kind of trick passed down from mother to daughter. Perhaps Blair had watched her mother prepare for glamorous events, maybe even hidden from view, dreaming of the day when she could dress herself the same way. Chuck knew that he had occasionally watched Bart from the hidden depths of the closet - the door cracked open - so that he could see how a man was to behave. For some reason, it had seemed like a dreadful instance of misbehaving, and Chuck would scarcely breathe for fear that his father would discover him there.

But still, he came back again and again to those claustrophobic walls to hide at the back of the dark room, unnoticed even when his father entered to pick out his shoes. He hid in those clothes his mother had left, which Bart had not had the heart to get rid off until one day, in a fit of fury, he had disposed of every single piece.

He always found these voyeuristic interludes unsatisfactory. It had always seemed to him that there should be more to it the mysterious process of readying oneself for a night out than simply pulling on a shirt and making sure your tie was straight.

And so Chuck had formed his own rituals. Nate had often teased him about how long it took him to get ready for a social event. "Come on, man," Nate would call from the couch in Chuck's old suite. "You're worse than Blair. It's like having two girlfriends."

Chuck would merely smirk while pulling out shirts from the closet or adjusting his hair. "Two girlfriends and yet no action to speak of. Sucks to be you, Nathaniel."

"Oh, you're going to get it now."

Of course, that was before Nate had disappeared from his life entirely, with Serena in tow.

"Keep reading," Blair whispered in his ear, lugging at his earlobe.

"You are the only person who could get aroused by a book about etiquette," he chuckled. "And don't you have to finish getting ready? It is after all your father who is taking us out to dinner."

Blair sighed and stood up from the bed. Sighing, she regarded herself in the mirror. "Unfortunately, I'm fairly sure that this is as good as it gets."

Chuck put the book on the bed gently, ignoring his still undone shoes and the tie that had yet to be knotted around his neck. Wrapping his arms around her midsection, putting his chin on her shoulder, he stared at her in the mirror. "This is pretty fucking spectacular."

And it was. Her hair was straight – a rare occurrence in itself – and fell halfway down her back. He noticed, with that surprisingly discerning taste in fashion he had, that she was wearing an Eleanor Waldorf original: perhaps as a peace offering. Certainly, Eleanor seemed to be making an effort with her daughter. It was an ostentatious dress, one that she would once have pursed her lips to see Blair in, back in the days where the most scandalous thing Blair could do was to wear a figure-hugging slinky dress. Chuck smirked to himself when he considered that she had done much more scandalous things since. Not the least of which was dating him.

The dress was a brilliant shade of orange, figure hugging, with a low neckline rendered slightly more demure by a bow across the shoulder. With it, Blair had pulled on red gloves that covered her forearms and red lips that had left small smudges on Chuck's neck. And, taking in the sight of her, he didn't mind in the least. [1]

Of course, she hadn't needed to tell him to match his tie to her dress.

Breathing in the smell of her, taking in the sight of her, Chuck smiled softly. Blair loved that smile: it was entirely hers, and it was only when they were alone that he would give it to her. Outside of this room, they both had their armor. Sometimes even together they wore it. So there was something precious about a genuine smile, unadorned by any defensiveness.

But quickly, the smile transformed to a smirk. She had learned that there were several faces of Chuck, and each of them she loved for different reasons. That smirk of his had come to stand for that infuriating passion that could transport her from furious to aroused with no more than a lip quirk. What was worse, he knew how it affected her, both positively and negatively. And there was nothing she could do to change it. "What do you think about me showing your parents how the 'gentlefolk of a few centuries back' would have acted at the dinner table tonight?"

Blair rolled her eyes. In the book Chuck had brought for her, Lady Colin Campbell had observed that even the most well-mannered people from a previous era would appear uncouth compared to the mannered people of her own day. Blair thought it was a true shame that her own contemporaries would probably seem just as bad. She loved hearing about the glowing eras of time passed: she loved the self-possessed beauty of the bygone era. But, when she turned around to wrap her arms around Chuck's neck, kissing him in a thoroughly impolite, hip-grinding way – the type of kiss that would have made any third party blush beetroot red – she mused that there were a few benefits to living in more relaxed times.

"Don't even _think_ about it," Blair whispered when they pulled out of their passionate kiss.

"Don't worry – I'll be perfectly polite," Chuck teased. "As long as you promise that we can get _really_ impolite later."

With a seductive grin, Blair kissed him once more. "Go and get the lipstick off your mouth while I finish getting ready." Sighing, Chuck turned to leave the room. But before he made it even a few steps away, he felt Blair's arms snake once more around his waist. "Trust me when I say we'll be getting positively rude tonight."

And with that, she pinched him right on the behind.

Chuck couldn't help but swagger slightly as he left the room to clean himself up. He found himself wandering around the house, knowing that he didn't have enough time to really start an activity without leaving it frustratingly unfinished. He drifted over to the television, where Eric and Jenny Humphrey were watching _High School Musical_ with some boy that Chuck had never met before_._ He rolled his eyes at Jenny and Eric drooling over Zac Efron.

"I don't see what the fuss is all about," Chuck muttered, ruffling Eric's hair affectionately. "I mean - he's barely pubescent. And yet for some reason every time he takes off his shirt, tweens everywhere swoon."

Eric glared up at Chuck, fixing his hair. "Chuck, I know this is hard for you to understand, but some things are sacred. And Zac Efron is one of those things. I beg of you – don't ruin this for us."

Rolling his eyes, Chuck wandered away, shouting over his shoulder, "I tell you what – they're in for a rude awakening when they graduate from that singing high school and realize they can't place Texas on a map." [2]

Eric turned to their new friend. "My brother just doesn't appreciate fine cinema."

Chuck felt a dangerous swoop in his chest at Eric's use of the word 'brother'. He wasn't sure why sentiments like that always made him feel so…vulnerable. Having scarcely dared believe that it was possible, he found himself suddenly getting everything he had ever wanted. And it was terrifying. So, he swallowed, wandering over to the kitchen table, where a stack of mail lay. Without much interest, Chuck flipped through the stack, wondering how long it would take for Blair to finish getting ready. Until he saw four envelopes that made his heart skip a beat.

Each stamped with a different crest: Harvard, Yale, Columbia and Princeton.

Chuck remembered applying to these schools without much interest. His grades had never been exceptional, and he knew that the broad thrust of his schooling had been a pattern of underachievement punctuated by moments of cheating. Even with the SAT scores he had dishonestly procured, he knew that any Ivy League was a long shot. He had merely applied because, well, he was _Chuck Bass_, and it was what was expected of him. He had assumed, really, that he wouldn't get into any reputable college, and that this disappointing reality would lead Bart to finally accept him into the fold at Bass Industries.

If he could go back now, he would have done things so differently. Because now Dr. Dwight had taken an interest in him and he had learned to love learning for its own sake. It was something that he rarely acknowledged, but he really was terrified that in the process of crashing destruction into his life, he had closed off any avenue to avoid the suddenly distasteful world of Jack and Bart Bass.

Four envelopes: one big and three small.

If there is one thing that every college applicant knows for certain, it is that the big envelope is the good one and the small envelope connotes nothing but thwarted desires and failure. Chuck sighed, scarcely daring to believe that it was possible he had actually gotten in to a college and fully recognizing the possibility that he had simply not been accepted to any, but that some strange stationary error had led to an oversized rejection letter. Maybe the big envelope was nothing more than a practical joke from the admissions office. Maybe toy snakes would burst out of it on opening. That seemed more likely than the notion that he had actually gotten into the college.

Opening the small envelopes first, he quickly passed through Columbia and Harvard; he had applied to Harvard only because of its status, and to Columbia merely because it was near to his beloved New York City. Their rejection was not particularly painful.

Swallowing, he tore open the big envelope.

It took only the first line to convince him that it was indeed real: we are happy to offer you admission to Princeton University. He double-checked his name. It really was addressed to him. He allowed himself a brief thrill of triumph before a sinking feeling filled him. Knowing exactly what it would say, he opened the final small envelope. He couldn't help but feel a swoop of disappointment when he saw that he hadn't gotten into Blair's university of choice. He knew that Yale was a long shot, but he had secretly hoped that he would be able to surprise Blair with such a triumph. She had never asked where he had applied, probably terrified as to what his answer would be.

It felt strange to be simultaneously elated that he had gotten into Princeton (Bart Bass's alma mater, he mused), while also feeling devastated that Yale had rejected him. Of course, he knew that Blair hadn't yet received her admissions letters – he suddenly understood this sudden dinner and why Harold and Eleanor had been so secretive about the reason behind it. He knew that she had unwillingly applied to all the Ivy League school, out of deference to Cyrus's sage counsel. Chuck bit his lip, reading the acceptance letter once more.

There was still a chance that they would be at the same university, although Blair would be disappointed with anything other than Yale. Chuck wondered whether, if she were presented with a choice between Yale alone and Princeton with him…well, whether he would be the victor. Whether he would even want to be the victor if it robbed her of her dream. And yet there was a fluttering panic in the base of his throat.

Shoving the letters into the nearest draw, he realized that the sooner they arrived at Per Se, the faster he would learn of their fate.

"Blair can you hurry up?" he shouted with more force than was necessary, suddenly anxious that they arrive on time. Eric and Jenny shot him a surprised look; he rarely spoke to Blair that way, unless they were embroiled in one of their shouting matches.

Blair appeared with a mutinous expression on her stunning face. "Did you seriously just snap at me?"

His face softened, but his nerves were still jittery. His heart ached at the sight of her. He longed to tell her about Princeton, but his natural inclination towards secrecy overtook him. Sometimes it was withholding information that allowed you to keep the power. When it came to something as serious as his relationship with Blair, this was especially true. He felt as if it were his responsibility to guard them from any possible assault.

"I don't want to be late," he said quietly. "Remember – guests should calculate their time so that they arrive neither two early nor too late, but hit the happy medium?"

Remembering the book he had brought her, Blair smiled warmly at him. "Well, then happy medium we shall hit."

And with that, they swept out of the room, with Blair completely unaware that Chuck felt as if he were heading in full force to the executioners guillotine.

* * *

It seemed that Nate and Serena had been standing in front of the front door for a long time. They weren't touching; it seemed that for the time being, their nocturnal activities were destined to stay locked away in the motel rooms they slept in. They had yet to speak of it in the light of day; that time was reserved for searching for Serena's brother.

It was a warm day, and Serena always found that her mood improved when the light was high like it was today. When golden light filled the sky it lit up her face and arms. When she and Nate had climbed out of the bus into suburban Chicago, she had raised her face to the sun and spun around twice.

"You've always loved the sunny days the most," Nate said fondly, causing her to smile at him through lowered eyelids.

But when they reached the front of the charming house – number 9 on Lavonia Road – Serena found her smile fading and nerves fill her stomach. She could feel Nate's eyes on her; they often strayed to her face these days. He was aching to talk to her, to find out where they stood, to find out whether their time had finally come. But, he also seemed to know that pushing her was never a good idea. With Serena, it was best to hold loosely, lest she slip away entirely.

"This is kind of scary," Serena said quietly.

"I know."

"How do you knock on someone's door and ask to see your brother?"

Nate was silent for a moment. "You know that they're expecting us. They know we're coming. It's not going to blindside them."

"It's a big thought though," Serena said in that familiar distant voice of hers. "I mean to knock on a door and ask to enter a life. It's big. It seems big to me."

"It is big. But you're really offering him a chance to enter your life. And anyone would be lucky to have a place in it."

And then, there, in the middle of a stranger's front lawn, under the sun that Serena had always loved the most, Nate kissed her.

It was the first time that they had kissed in the open and Serena found that the gentle touch of Nate's lips combined with the warm power of the sun made her dizzy. When he pulled back, nervous and uncertain, Nate looked at her face, framed by gleaming blonde hair.

"What was that?" Serena asked, still dazed by the kiss and the feel of the sun on her bare arms.

Nate looked across the lawn, at the reassuring mechanical motion of the sprinklers. He was looking for a suitable answer, and when his eyes fell on that imposing oak door of number 9 Lavonia Road, he was struck by inspiration.

"That was me knocking on a door," he said quietly, nervous that she would laugh at his cheesy sentiment.

But without saying a word, Serena took his hand and walked to the front door, witnessed only by the sun, which both of them had always liked the best.

* * *

Chuck knew that Harold and Eleanor were thinking of Blair's tastes when they arranged the dinner at Per Se. It should have been a tip-off that this evening was about their daughter, at least, more so than usual. The dining room had a view over Columbus Circle and Central Park and each table had a square bouquet of flowers on it.

Despite their propensity for tardiness, Chuck and Blair managed to beat her parents there, much to Blair's chagrin. For his part, Chuck was happy to be able to steal a few moments alone before the combined force of all three of Blair's father and her even more formidable mother converged in once place, undoubtedly with some kind of death sentence for their relationship. Despite his insistence that they hurry, Chuck was suddenly keen for the evening to last as long as possible; he had low expectations for the dinner itself, and seeing Blair look so magnificent, catching the eye of every man and woman in the restaurant, was probably the only part of the festivities he would enjoy.

"We should have gotten here later than my parents. It feels like we're co-opting the evening from them," she fretted.

"Let me buy you a cocktail," he said suddenly, his eyes soft.

She was startled by the suddenness of his request. "Because what we really need is for my parents to see us imbibing drinks before they arrive…"

Chuck couldn't stop staring at her, slipping into an unusually peaceful state. Eric thought of him as a brother, he was madly in love with Blair Waldorf and he had even gotten into Princeton. Someone like Chuck never allowed himself to think about the future; it was a habit that he had developed from the moment his unpredictable father had stopped attending his birthday parties. It was best to enjoy what one had without thinking about the future. And today, Chuck had more than he had ever had before. Even if that meant he had more to lose than ever, he had to believe that just attaining it was something in itself.

"If we go to the bar we can see when they arrive and still make an entrance after them. That way your father won't be shamed and Eleanor will have ample opportunity to put cyanide on my cutlery."

She couldn't help but laugh at his deadpan expression. Shrugging helplessly, she allowed him to take her hand and lead her to a barstool. "Martini, dry," he said to the bartender without needing to ask. "And a neat scotch."

Blair was still frowning. "Perhaps I should call Dorota and ask whether they've left yet - "

Chuck interrupted her with a searing kiss. Although Chuck had always been renowned for his flagrant disregard for good taste and etiquette in public displays of affection, it was rare for him to simply kiss her in public. Usually he favoured the darker spaces of the room, where there was at least a vestige of privacy, in which he could take liberties – to push the boundaries of acceptable public behaviour with just enough cover to lull her into a false sense of security.

Blair noticed that he was putting extra effort into the kiss, as if he was trying to tell her something. She couldn't for the life of her figure out what it was that made him act so…sentimental. Perhaps it was the fact that high school was finally drawing to a close. Or maybe he was just less nervous after so much time spent with her parents.

It was as if she could see something different in the air around their heads. His bearing had shifted; there was something different about him. And as usual, he wasn't telling her.

"Chuck," she said, shaking her head from the sudden onslaught of butterflies that had filled her with the touch of his lips. "What has gotten into you?"

He looked away from her, sipping his scotch. His leg bounced up and down on the stool. "I have been meaning to ask you: do you have any plans for the summer break?"

Blair decided to ignore the fact that he hadn't answered her question. She had always felt as if discussion of the future was forbidden for them. Although she didn't doubt the intensity of his feelings for her, she always assumed that with Chuck, you had to tread softly. Every day his devotion surprised her; she couldn't take the measure of it. After so long warring with each other, it seemed as if the battle had finally died down. Blair found herself smiling in spite of his reticence, in spite of the doubts she still harboured about him, and in spite even of the feeling of her disappearing within his life. With a simple question, without even looking at her, he had thrown open a door within her mind. Blair had, after all, always been a future planner.

"Nothing springs to mind," she said breezily, sipping her martini. "Why did you have some ideas?"

Still avoiding her eyes, he smirked into his drink. "I had some thoughts about taking you somewhere far away, before turning you into my wanton love slave."

"How very Conan the Barbarian. Would I be peeling grapes and feeding them to you?"

"Of course," he grinned, putting a hand on her knee. "And there will be some kind of costume involved." Finally, their eyes met, and his hand travelled further up her leg than was really appropriate in a public place. Despite the fact she had spent the better part of the evening hearing him read allowed form a book about propriety, she found suddenly that she didn't care in the least if they were making spectacles of themselves. It may have been the martini she had drowned too quickly, but warmth spread over her skin and she found herself searching the room from one of those familiar dark spaces where she could have her way with him.

Drunk on the smell of his scotch and the feel of his hand, Blair blurted out her next question without thinking. "And you promise not to leave me on the helipad this time?"

The instant she said the words, she regretted them. His eyebrows knitted together, and he pulled his hand back, leaning on the bar. "God Blair, how long am I going to have to pay for _that_ one?"

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm really sorry. I didn't even mean it."

"The hell you didn't," he said bitterly. "You always mean it. You remember everything I've ever done wrong."

"Chuck," she said forcefully, pulling his face to hers with her hand. "I'm sorry. I want to go away with you. It's all I want."

The mood had soured slightly and Blair was furious with herself for misspeaking at the moment when he had been talking about their future. How to reach him, when he was shutting down in front of her? With Chuck there was always only one thing that what solve this sort of altercation. Leaning close to him, as she had at another bar, so long ago when she was trying to seduce him.

"Actually, that's not entirely true. There is one other thing I want."

He knew that voice. A prickle of heat lifted the hairs on his neck. "Oh really," he rumbled softly. "What is that?"

"What I really want to do is find a dark corner of this beautiful restaurant where you can push me against the wall and have your way with me," she whispered.

Chuck found it suddenly hard to swallow. But even through the haze of lust, something occurred to him. Perhaps there was one thing that could carry them through the rough times ahead: the one thing that would keep their fire burning was this insatiable passion they felt for each other. Things always made more sense when his skin pressed against hers. "Well, maybe we could just excuse ourselves - "

"Blair!" Chuck tried to stifle his groan as Roman materialised by their sides. "We are seated and waiting for you! And yet here you are with your lover enjoying an aperitif!" [3]

According to Lady Colin Campbell, when one was putting together the guest list for a dinner party, it was important to consider the talking powers of your friends. For example, inviting only the mousiest, quietest of your peers on a single night would lead to a conversational elephant's graveyard. Inviting all the talkative, noisy people would lead to a cacophony that would force the hostess to knock unconscious at least two members of the dining party just to get some peace.

Judging by Roman's enthusiasm, there was a distinct possibility that someone would knock him out before the end of the evening.

"I am so sorry, Roman," Blair said with false enthusiasm. "Please, lead the way."

Still adopting a playful pose, Roman kissed her on both cheeks before giving Chuck the same treatment. Chuck was relieved enough to have someone on his side not to be thrown by the sudden contact of the flamboyant Frenchman. "You are lucky it was not Harold who found you – he would have been unimpressed by Charles liquoring you up."

Blair rolled her eyes at the sound of the awkward expression in his otherwise smooth French accent. But Chuck felt his previous peacefulness wash over him, despite the slight row that they'd had at the bar. "You're quite right, Roman," he all but purred, noticing Roman's cheeks redden slightly to his great satisfaction. "It is selfish of me not to spread the love as we say in the States."

Blair made a face at him from behind Roman's head, but her soon-to-be stepfather seemed completely sucked in by Chuck's charm. It was around that moment that Chuck realized that tonight might actually be successful. Sweeping Blair to their table, he made a silent promise to her to try to do better this time; he owed her a night of perfect behaviour.

It seemed that the Gods were smiling on him for once; the first part of the evening passed by flawlessly. A board member of Bass Industries, seated across the room, sent them a bottle of particularly expensive red wine to their table. The man – Charlesworth – proceeded to pay their table a visit, hinting heavily that it would soon be time for him to take the reigns at Bart's company. It couldn't have been better if Chuck had planned it himself, despite his secret ambivalence to the company at the moment. Blair glowed in the dim lighting at the attention he was getting, and couldn't help but grin when Eleanor gave Chuck an approving look and complimented his tie.

"You know my daughter well, Charles," Eleanor smiled. "Either that or she held you down and forced you to match her."

This must be how an actor felt when they were blitzing an audition. Roman seemed to have taken a shining to him and Cyrus liked just about everyone. Chuck managed to keep an innocent expression on his face when they discussed Aaron Rose's sudden relocation to London. "Artistic types," Cyrus said jovially. "Always following their muses around the world. Wonderful, wonderful."

Blair glanced at Chuck, but his face was completely impassive as he diligently refilled Eleanor's glass and discussed history with Roman. The only person apparently unmoved was Harold. He watched Chuck's every move with a wary expression on his face. It was after they ordered their main courses that Chuck felt Blair's hand on his leg, circling gently – a tacit mark of approval and a promise of rewards to come.

"Harold," Chuck said cordially, light-headed with his victory. "Blair tells me that you're putting a vineyard in the chateau. It must be beautiful this time of year."

Harold gave him a steely look, feeling quite deserted by Eleanor, who had warmed considerably to Chuck over the course of the evening. "Yes, it is. Such a difference being in the country makes – far from the false tongues and inflated egos of the city dwellers. It really helps one recognise a charade."

Chuck's soaring spirits took a sharp dive. For there was no one who more encapsulated the big city - New York in particular - than him. Harold's eyes confirmed the snide edge to the remark. Blair ceased her rotations for only an instant, before continuing. She was clearly trying to pretend that there had been no rebuke in her father's comment. She was trying to protect Chuck's feelings and he was irritated at her for it. He may have been Blair's father, but there was no one in the tri-state area that was allowed to condescend to him.

"Yes, it must be quite relaxing being so far from the falsehood that one leaves behind when one starts a new life," he said, his eyes glinting but his tone warm.

For a moment, Harold felt exposed before the boy in front of him, his mind travelling back to that wretched time when he balanced his secret life with that of his family and work. Even though Blair removed her hand altogether at this, Chuck couldn't help but feel a thrill of triumph when his words hit home.

"Blair," Roman said warmly, seemingly oblivious to the entire exchange. "You simply must come to visit us during the holidays. Cat is twice the size he was last year."

"Yes," Harold said enthusiastically, all trace of his coldness gone as he regarded his daughter. "It will be refreshing before you start at Yale."

"Daddy," Blair chided. "Don't jinx me."

Chuck felt his throat constrict. Here came the big moment. Not caring that Blair was annoyed at him, he grabbed for her hand under the table.

"It's funny you should mention that," Eleanor said innocently.

The four adults at the table exchanged looks before Eleanor grinned and pulled out a very large envelope with Yale University stamped across the front.

"You got the big envelope," Chuck said flatly, eyeing the wretched thing.

With a shaking hand, Blair reached out to take the envelope. With a single, sweeping tear, she opened the letter that would represent the culmination of all these years of careful planning and brilliant execution. Reading the letter with a blank expression on her face, she immediately turned to Chuck. "I got in."

Although the others burst into chatter the instant she said it, Blair couldn't tear her eyes from Chuck's face. It should have been the perfect moment, she told herself. This was not a time to worry about what would happen with your boyfriend when you went to college. Now was the time for celebration, now was the time for victory. But all she could think of was the look on Chuck's face. It was an indescribable combination and Blair didn't think that she would have been able to discern any one feeling if she could stare at it all day.

"You got Yale," he said quietly.

"I got Yale," she said disbelievingly.

The other, forgotten members of the table fell silent to watch this exchange.

Chuck reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear, feeling a swell of fear in his chest. "It's all your dreams come true."

Blair felt as if her tongue had grown too big for her mouth. "What about you?"

"Yes, Charles," Roman said brightly. "What about you?"

Chuck would never quite know what he was thinking at that moment. It would forever be marked by a question mark when he was taking measure of his life, when he weighed up his actions as if balancing an account. He looked into each of their faces: Roman's eager and friendly, Eleanor's purse-lipped and curious, Cyrus's full of compassion, and Harold's…well, Harold's cold and judgemental. But there was one face that stood out more than all the others. Blair looked at him so expectantly, so lovingly that he felt as if he might drown in the look of it. She was scarcely daring to hope, he knew. But he still didn't know what possessed him to blurt out those words.

"I'm going to Yale, with Blair."

And even as he felt horror over his stupid lie, even as he predicted that nothing but disaster would come from it, Chuck couldn't help but feel his heart expand when she propelled herself into his arms: in front of everyone, in front of her parents. Tears began to fall down her cheeks as she kissed his face as the others politely looked away. "We're going to Yale, we're going to Yale," she said again and again.

Chuck looked around the table, noticed the grudging respect in Harold and Eleanor's eyes, battling with their obvious lack of enthusiasm that he and Blair would be shipped off to the same location for four-odd years.

"This calls for a celebration," Harold said solemnly, ordering another obscenely priced bottle of wine. "Congratulations, both of you."

A tearful Blair settled back in her seat, embarrassed but thrilled that the final piece of her happiness had fallen into place, allowing her to truly revel in the moment. The rest of the evening passed with Chuck saying little, desperately wracking his brain for a solution to his devastating moment of complete stupidity.

When the evening drew to a close, and Blair closed the door to her bedroom behind them – although she'd acquiesced to Eleanor's desire that she return with them to the Waldorf penthouse, she had insisted that Chuck join them – Chuck wracked his brain. It was not until she pushed him onto the bed that he finally quietened his brain. In fact, it completely shut down when she began slowly taking off each article of clothing, whispering into his ear and reminding him of the amazing sex they'd had when she would describe how she planned to get into Yale.

And when she straddled him, he couldn't even find it in him to regret telling her the lie that had made her so happy, and had led to such delicious celebrations.

But for the life of him, Chuck had no idea what he was thinking.

* * *

"Serena, wait," Nate called as she all but ran down the garden path. "We should talk about this – please talk to me."

The sky had dimmed slightly, as if it had taken her into account when it chose its hue. Serena barely noticed as she was consumed by one, singular intention: to get away from this house as fast as humanly possible.

"Come on – Serena. Will you just stop for a minute?"

To his surprise, she did stop, suddenly. When she turned to face him, he saw that her cheeks were covered in tears. "What Nate? What do you want to talk about? What exactly do you expect me to say?"

He was used to chasing after Serena, not used to having her turn around and question him. Noticing the dark flash of her eyes, and the pallor of her skin, Nate found suddenly that he had no idea what he wanted to say to her. So, he stood there gaping at her, trying to will his brain into thinking of the perfect thing to say.

"That's what I figured," Serena spat. "Maybe you should do what you've been doing whenever things are too hard – just run away, Nate. Run away."

The worst part about her cruel words was that they were impossible to deny. Hadn't this entire trip been about running away? Even when he stayed in one place, he seemed to be running from himself, running from his family, running from his own mistakes. But, the thought that she would think of him as flighty hurt him; he had always been completely steadfast when it came to his feelings about her. He had spent the entire year that she was away thinking about her, replaying over and over the scene from the Shepherd wedding. Memorising the shape of her based only on recollection. And now she had the audacity to accuse him of running away from issues.

"Why the hell not? I mean between you and Chuck, I've really learnt from the best."

Her face grew hard. "Well the student seems to have become the master, right?"

Nate felt the fight drain from him. He had never been good at confrontation. And Serena was someone he never wanted to use harsh words with. "I guess you're right," he said softly, the fight going out of him. "You know, I'm really, really sorry, right?"

The air left Serena's lungs and she found herself staggering into his waiting arms. Crying against his chest, Serena tried desperately to fill her lungs. He said nothing, stroking her back wordlessly. If it had been Dan with her, he would have found some way to talk her out of her feelings – one of his witty comments, perhaps. And before she knew it she would have been hiccuping and feeling whatever it was her own personal wordsmith wanted her to feel. But Nate was different, he didn't have the way with words that Dan did. He just let her feel what she was feeling, while he wrapped his arms around her.

"How am I going to tell my mother that he's dead?"

"I don't know," Nate said honestly. "But you don't have to right away."

She nodded, her eyes closed. When she looked up at him, her nose was red and runny and her eyes bloodshot. But he was overwhelmed with the desire to kiss her.

And so he did.

When he broke the kiss, stroking her hair, he whispered into her ear. "Tell me what to do to make it better?"

"Take me somewhere, anywhere," she replied.

And so he did.

* * *

Harold regarded his daughter fondly as she sat down to breakfast with him. They were, for once, completely alone. Cyrus had insisted upon taking both Eleanor and Roman out for breakfast and Roman had been begging Eleanor for a tour of the atelier since he had arrived.

"Have I mentioned how proud I am of you?"

Blair rolled her eyes, but she couldn't hide how pleased she was to hear him say it. "Only every hour, on the hour."

"Well it's true," Harold grinned. "And it's nice having you all to myself for once."

Blair cast a sharp look in his direction as she prodded at the grapefruit that sat on her plate. "As in it's good seeing me without Chuck?"

Harold held up his hands to ward her off. "I didn't say that, Blair-bear." At the sound of her childhood nickname, Blair's face softened, but she couldn't shake the feeling that he was only just holding his opinion at bay. She knew that if they had been closer than they were now, he would have been more forthcoming with his views. Certainly, Eleanor had no hesitation in voicing her opinion. Even though she was warming to the idea of the Bass name, if not Chuck himself, she still regularly voiced her disapproval of Blair's lifestyle at present. It saddened Blair to realize that – annoying as it was – this nagging was the mark of a true parent. Although her father had always been her favourite, she knew that in reality they didn't have the close relationship they once had.

"Why don't you like him?" Blair asked, hating how choked her voice was.

"What makes you think I don't like him?"

Blair frowned at his answer; the only thing worse than knowing that he was hiding things from her was to have him deny it. She remembered the day she had first discovered her father's sexual orientation – the same day she had taken her first, unpleasant tokes of marijuana with Chuck.

At the thought of Chuck, Blair felt her spirits dampen even more. When the euphoria of that evening she had found out about Yale ebbed, she had started talking in terms of practicalities rather than fantasies. She asked Chuck all sorts of questions about where he wanted to live, about what classes he would be taking. She had thought that night had been a sort of victory for them. She had thought that he was giving her the green light to talk about all those plans she had for them. It had given her leeway to dream and plan and scheme.

But she found him pulling away from her. It was just as she had always feared: at the first sign of planning for the future, he was being overcome with the desire to escape from her suffocating hold. She had been so convinced that things had changed between them. The list of things she had been willing to trade for just the promise of happiness with him – it terrified her, really.

And now, faced by her father's mock-innocence, she felt as if she had been living a mock-life, herself. Perhaps nothing in the last month had been real; she could have been deluding herself all along.

She pushed those thoughts away and instead focused her attention on Harold. "I thought you, of all people, might understand."

"Understand what?"

Blair fixed her doe-eyes on him, and he felt the familiar tug at his heart. "Understand what it was like to love someone that no one thinks you should. To be touched just once by that person – it's better than anything else you've ever experienced. Until you can't convince yourself to care what anyone else says."

It was the fate of every parent to be truly shocked by the things that children said. Although it had been a long time since Blair had been a child, Harold found himself once more floored by her. Never, since he had packed his bags and chosen love over responsibility, had he and Blair sat down and spoken about it. He had simply expected her to accept it. So liberated by his daring choice, he hadn't considered what the scene looked like through Blair's eyes.

"Wasn't that what it was like with Roman?"

Harold could scarcely locate his voice. But he nodded. "That's exactly what it was like with Roman."

"So the question remains," she said seriously. "Why won't you like Chuck?"

Finally, any lingering impression of Blair as a child shattered before him. It was the 'won't' that convinced him. Because she recognised the resistance in him, the refusal to see any element of himself in their romance. It was a refusal rather than an opinion. And Blair was someone who could tell the difference. "It's not that I don't like Chuck. It's that I'm scared of him."

"I don't understand," Blair said simply.

"Neither do I, entirely," he admitted sheepishly. "It's just…there is a darkness in Chuck. And it scares me. I think it even scares him. And I'm scared that his darkness will pull you in."

"Chuck loves me," she said furiously. "I know he does."

"I don't doubt it. I've seen it. And I don't think he ever intentionally hurts you. But he does it again and again, doesn't he?"

Blair couldn't answer his question, but her silence was enough for Harold. He reached out to touch her hand, feeling a pang when she jerked away. Settling his eyes on his daughter's hands as they fiddled with her grapefruit, Harold forced himself to keep talking. "I met a woman in France. She won the Legion of Honour for her work as a member of the Resistance in World War II. A remarkable woman, Blair. I'd like you to meet her. And when I spoke to her about her experiences during the war – I asked her how she survived the time she spent in a concentration camp. I couldn't understand the tenacity of such a small woman in the face of such a huge darkness. Do you know what she said to me?"

Blair shook her head.

"She said to me that she forgot about the war that raged outside and focussed on the war that raged within. She focussed on the tiny victories in each person she met. The battle between light and dark. A battle to the death."

Blair finally located her voice. "What does that have to do with Chuck?"

"I suppose that I am just waiting for the sign," Harold sighed, knowing that he would not win this fight today.

"What sign?"

"The sign that in a battle between his feelings for you and his own darkness, you will win."

The silence settled for so long that Harold almost forgot that Blair was still sitting there. When she spoke, it made him jump.

"I'm waiting too," she said simply, before leaving him at the dining room table. "Please excuse me."

"Of course," he said quietly, but she had already disappeared.

* * *

Dan Humphrey was having a pretty good day until a hammering at his front door interrupted his pleasant daydreams.

Since the night he had taken Vanessa out and the pair had shared a tentative, passionate kiss, he had been floating dreamily. After the initial hesitation – the nervous coffee dates, the innuendo-ridden text messages – Dan felt as if his dreams from a few years ago had crawled out of his head only to be acted out in real life.

In typical Vanessa and Dan fashion, they had discussed the situation from every angle. It was so difficult to separate the scenes from the last week; chronology wasn't the key. The key was intensity. That first kiss – outside the unedifying convenience store in the light summer rain. The laughter when the man behind the counter – applauding the "beautiful lady". And then the arm snaked around her waist. The next morning, nervous and jittery while waiting for her to arrive. Then the discussion about anything and everything except the matter at hand, until finally he'd had to say it.

"I actually asked you here to talk to you about last night," he said solemnly.

"No kidding."

And then the easy laughter and the discussion long into the night. Until finally, with nothing more than a kiss, a sudden flare of passion. It was all the more intense because of the long delay. And that night, when he had buried himself inside of her, recalling all those seemingly unimportant moments of attraction over the course of a long friendship, Dan had found himself completely satisfied.

They had found their way back to each other, and he had been thinking about her when Chuck Bass prowled into his room with untidy hair and flashing eyes.

"Hey man," Dan said hesitantly. "Did we have plans today?"

"You got into Yale," Chuck said flatly.

Dan was not surprised that Chuck had managed to find out about his admission. He was fairly sure that Rufus had been out getting posters made, announcing the news. He was surprised, however, at Chuck's nervous countenance, at the tightness of his jaw. "Are you just narrating, or was there something else you wanted to say?"

"You got into Yale," Chuck said again.

Dan realized with a start that he was talking to a crazy person. Using the most soothing voice he could, he gestured at the sofa. "Would you like to sit down, Chuck?"

"No," he said flatly. "I don't have time to sit down, Humphrey."

"Then why exactly are you here?"

"I have a business proposition for you." For an instant, Dan thought he saw a look of disbelief cross Chuck's face, as if even he couldn't believe what he was about to ask Dan.

Dan chuckled. "I think you have pretty unrealistic expectations of my allowance if you think I could afford to go into business with you."

Chuck took a steadying breath. He had been standing outside the Humphrey loft for a long time before knocking, repeatedly asking himself whether he was really going to ask Dan to do something he didn't have the right to ask of him. It was a new feeling, this guilt, this questioning. And Chuck didn't like it. It made him look at himself. And it made him feel as if everyone else was looking at him.

When he had spoken to Dean Baraby, shamelessly name-dropping and even going as far as intimating that he might consider donating an entire new wing, the Dean had told him that the only chance he had was being weight-listed. And then he would be able to claim a place only if one of the graduates who had been accepted were to drop out.

It had seemed to easy, when he found out about Dan's acceptance, to simply go to him and propose an arrangement. Of course, that was until he stood at the entrance to Dan's loft and realized that it was complete and utter madness. He couldn't ask Dan to give up his place to him. Dan was his friend – one of the few he had left, really. And no matter how generous the terms of their arrangement, Chuck was more than a little ashamed of himself for even thinking of it.

Until, of course, he remembered Blair. There was no end to what he would do to keep Blair. He knew how school-age romances ended. They ended with time and space – with the pull of the immediate.

There was so much to lose now. There was too much to lose.

So he stood there, looking at Dan, feeling surprisingly distant form the scene.

"What's this deal?" Dan prompted. Chuck wished Dan didn't sound so concerned about him. It would be easier if he reminded his friend of the way he had once been; it would be easier if Dan hated him a little. And so, Chuck conjured his old self – the cold arrogance of privilege, the disdain he had always felt for those like Dan who actually had to work for his achievement. He felt his entire bearing change, and he saw subtle signs that Dan recognised his disdainful look and subconsciously recoiled form it.

"It's pretty simple, Humphrey," Chuck said coldly. "I want you to decline your acceptance to Yale."

Dan barked with laughter. "Yeah okay. Then how about we go to Vegas so I can start my new life as a burlesque dancer."

"I'm serious."

Dan was taken aback. "Well, then I'd have to say first that you're crazy, and second, no."

Chuck found himself adopting the predatory pose he had once worn on a daily basis. He let his eyes traverse across the room, taking in the shabby furniture, even going so far as to pick at one of the cushions. He knew that Dan was hardening against him. This was precisely the sort of thing that would affront him in a primal way; he had always hated to feel less than people like Chuck. But now, Chuck would force him to look at his own house as if it were something pathetic – as if there was something comical about every warm memory he had of the place.

He stepped close to Dan, speaking in that soft, dangerous voice he hadn't had much use for recently. "I will make it worth your while, Humphrey. Yale's expensive, especially for someone like…_you_." He made sure to say the 'you' in a tone suggesting that he would be less offended by a pile of excrement then he was by people in Dan's position. "I know you were accepted at Columbia. And I would be _eager_ to pay for all four years with no expectation of repayment if you would consider my proposition."

Dan cocked his head to the side. He realized with a start that Chuck was presenting him with a caricature of himself. He was playing a character exactly like the person he had once been, in order to goad Dan into doing what he suggested. Even though he sensed that it was an act, that Chuck hated himself for even suggesting it, Dan was deeply offended that Chuck would do this to him. He resented the fact that Chuck would so easily cast aside their friendship.

"You're offering to pay for my college education in exchange for me turning down Yale," Dan said disbelievingly.

Chuck ran a frustrated hand through his hair. For an instant, the mask slipped and he settled a very real look of desperation on Dan. "You're a smart guy Humphrey – you just got into Yale for fuck's sake. Are you seriously telling me that you don't understand the terms of a simple agreement?"

"Oh I understand your _agreement_," Dan said slowly. "I just don't understand how you can possibly imagine that I would, under any circumstances, agree to be brought by you."

"I'm not buying you, Dan," Chuck said softly, the cracks in his armour starting to show.

"No, you're not. Because I can't give up my future just because it will make your socks roll up and down." His voice, which had started out so even, increased in volume until both of them flinched at the volume of it.

"You're right," Chuck said suddenly. "I shouldn't have even asked. I'm sorry."

With that simple apology, all the righteous indignation that had been building in Dan ebbed. Although he hadn't entirely forgiven Chuck for barging in here with such a tempting and insulting offer, he found that for some reason he wasn't angry.

"I'm kind of surprised you asked," Dan admitted.

"You would have assumed I'd just do whatever the hell I wanted without running it by you?"

"Pretty much," Dan admitted. "Why did you ask?"

Chuck flopped down onto the couch. "Seriously, Humphrey. I'm not in the mood to perform emotional fellatio on you."

Dan rolled his eyes. "And as usual, the moment is ruined."

"You know it is a real miracle that you manage to get women," Chuck muttered darkly.

"Like you can talk. Especially if you factor in how close you stand to talk to people." [4]

Chuck closed his eyes, sensing that Dan was sitting down on the other chair in the room. "I got into Princeton."

"That's great, man," Dan said carefully.

"I told Blair I got into Yale."

"Okay. Why did you do that?"

It seemed that Chuck had slipped into the dark folds of his own mind. "How much of your life can you account for, Humphrey?" [5]

"All of it," Dan replied honestly. "I mean, it may not make sense immediately, but usually make sense of it later. There's a reason for everything."

Maybe it was easier to speak when there was nothing but the dancing lights behind his eyelids before him. Chuck didn't open his eyes to look at Dan, because he was swimming in the dark lights. "I never used to have a reason for doing anything. _I'm Chuck Bass_. That was my answer to everything. And it still is, I guess. Why did I lie to Blair? I'm Chuck Bass."

There was so much self-loathing in his voice that Dan's heart went out to him.

"You lied to Blair because you love her and you didn't want to let her down," Dan said. "You've changed, Chuck. Anyone could see it. I mean, you never would have been friends with me before. Before, you would have brought off Dean Baraby and taken Yale away from me. But you couldn't do it this time."

"So I'm less evil than before. Yay, me," Chuck said sarcastically.

Dan shrugged. "So it's more of a sliding scale for you than it is black and white. It's always a battle. Some of the time it's easier and some times it's harder. But that's not just you. It's everyone."

"So what do I do, Obi-Wan Kenobe?"

"You tell Blair the truth."

Chuck finally opened his eyes to look at Dan hopefully. "There's no Plan B?"

"Sorry, no."

"She is going to be so pissed off," Chuck sighed.

"Probably," Dan grinned, ducking when Chuck threw a pillow at him. "But she loves you, and even though it was a stupid thing to do, you did it out of love. So that can't be all bad right?"

Chuck nodded and got to his feet. He made it all the way to the door before he figured out how to articulate the concern that frayed the edges of his thoughts. Without fully turning around, Chuck paused at the doorway. "It's me every time," he said. "I mean, how many times can one person find a way to ruin things? I feel like I'm running out of chances."

Dan didn't have anything to say to that.

* * *

It was the peaceful hour between "everything's okay" and "we need to talk", and Blair was studiously ignoring the ominous message from Chuck.

That was the strangest part of dating someone who had absolutely no experience with these matters: he sometimes stumbled unknowingly into relationship cliché. But Blair reassured herself that "we need to talk" from Chuck didn't necessarily connote what it would have with Nate or Marcus. Knowing Chuck, it meant: "we need to talk dirty". Blair exhaled through her teeth in frustration.

She pushed all thoughts of Chuck out of her mind, determined to enjoy the scene unfolding before her at the school gates.

From this height, Eric Van Der Woodsen seemed like a tiny slip of a thing. And even as he spoke to Jenny and a small knot of their friends, his eyes constantly travelled to Jonathon, who was studiously ignoring him. Blair felt a thrill of anger towards the boy. She had been there, many times. Cast aside without any explanation and left to wonder what she had done wrong.

A small ember sparked in her chest as she reminded herself that Chuck had never done that to her. He had been cruel, certainly, but there was usually a reason. If he was cold and spiteful, he was that way because she had put him in that position. At least, that was the way it was with them. Really it had been his eyes that had strayed to her time and time again when she positively rubbed his face in her rekindled relationship with Nate.

Right as scheduled, a scooter pulled up outside of the school gates.

Eric couldn't help but look at the guy who climbed off the back of it. He was the perfect balance between handsome and non-threatening. Although he was clearly better looking than any mere mortal, he had a casual, scruffy growth of stubble and a monogrammed band t-shirt. He was, Blair mused as she watched the scene, everything that would make Jonathon gag on his own tongue.

"Eric," the boy shouted warmly, grinning.

"Um, do I know that guy?" Eric muttered to Jenny.

She shrugged. But before she could even answer, the boy bounded over to Eric and kissed him on the mouth. If his heart hadn't been hammering in his ears, Eric was certain he would have assumed that he was experiencing some out of body experience. He noticed with a grim satisfaction that Jonathon was gaping at him. As the boy pulled away form Eric's lips, he whispered, "my name's Robbie – Blair Waldorf told me to tell you that sometimes revenge is a dish best served by other people."

Eric lowered his eyes to the ground and grinned. He wasn't certain where she was, but she knew that she would be watching. When his eyes finally fell on her, leaning casually on the wall next to the entrance to Constance, she winked at him.

With little more than a pleased smile, Eric shrugged and allowed Robbie to hand him a helmet and drag him onto the back of the scooter.

Blair smiled smugly when she noticed that Jonathon's jaw had yet to be scraped off the ground. With a satisfied smile, smoothed down her Bulldog-blue skirt. Blair had ruled these walls for the last few years with an iron fist, performing various acts of awe, wonder and vengeance.

But it was only after performing the tiniest act of kindness to Eric Van Der Woodsen did she finally feel ready to retire her position as Queen B.

* * *

In a forgotten corner of the Van Der Woodsen penthouse, a ghost walked across the floor.

Lily stood in front of the mirror in her stark white bedroom, staring at her reflection – convinced that she was turning into vapour before her own eyes.

But, of course, she was not that lucky.

She was, however, bone-wearyingly tired. She was achingly tired down to her very marrow. And yet, sleep was impossible. She knew that Blair and Eric (Chuck rarely came upstairs to visit her) would have been surprised to learn that she didn't sleep when she lay in bed all day. She merely stayed still because moving hurt.

Despite her still body, her mind raced backwards in time, through the most terrifying, distressing moments of her life. She remembered how it felt to feel that she had lost Chuck forever: that her irresponsible passion for Rufus had led to the death of her husband and the disintegration of his damaged adoptive son. She remembered what it was like to find Eric in the bathtub with an ugly slash on his wrists. And then Serena joined the miserable parade: drunk, high and shaking like a leaf when she caught the train away from home, only calling her mother when she reached Connecticut. Every cruel word her mother had ever said to her, every stinging rejection from each man: she constantly watched a parade of her life's failures. Until finally she reached the memory of that first, worst mistake. The memory of a child she had never even held before she gave it away.

A part of her was still cogent enough to know that she could not go on like this: that eventually a breaking point must be reached.

When Lily finally reached that point, she didn't scream or attempt to hurt herself. She merely gathered together a few possessions before descending the stairs to find the only person in the house who knew her secret.

She found him sitting by himself, seemingly deep in thought. He held a scotch in his hand, and it didn't even occur to Lily that she should take it away from him. Because sitting there without need of light, he seemed far older than his eighteen years.

"Charles," Lily whispered.

"Lily," he said quietly, taking a sip from his drink. "It's good to see you out of bed."

"Charles," she repeated.

This repetition seemed finally to capture his attention. He had been sitting alone since his conversation with Dan, ignoring even Blair's calls. But something in Lily's voice jolted him back to earth. He put down his glass and frowned at her wasted figure. She was not eating enough; he could see it from where he was sitting. But there was something far more sinister than that wrong with her. Something had wafted into her soul: there was a palpable darkness around her.

He was unspeakably gentle when he clasped her upper arms, and Lily felt herself finally embracing the feeling that was coursing through her. She knew that there was no one worse at embracing happiness than Chuck Bass, but when it came to crisis, there was no one better. "Lily, what is it?"

"I think I need help," she said quietly. "I just…I need help."

Chuck settled his dark, adult eyes upon her. "Perhaps I should call a doctor."

"Yes," Lily said, with as much dignity she could muster. "I think perhaps that would be a good idea."

And that was when Chuck Bass discovered the proper etiquette for a mental breakdown.

* * *

[1] . - the dress described in the dinner scene with Blair's family is a variation on the dress seen on the Dior homepage.

[2] Adapted from a Saturday Night Live skit starring Zac Efron.

[3] I toyed with the idea of putting Roman's accent in the story, but decided it was annoying constantly writing 'Arold instead of Harold. You're just going to have to use your imagination!

[4] This was one of my favorite lines form the finale. The way Dan reminisced with Vanessa about how close Chuck would stand to speak.

[5] A great line from Garre's _Six Degrees of Separation_.


	14. Chapter 14: A Fight Between Giants

A/N: I drew inspiration from Yates' _Revolutionary Road_ for the first scene, so consider yourselves warned if there are any familiar undercurrents. This chapter is a place-keeper to some extent; the major action will start in Chapter Fifteen. The main focus is upon those introspective fights that have been boiling between our characters. Nearly at the four-hundred page mark. Soon I think that this story will end and the sequel, _Lightness And Weight_, will begin.

**Chapter Fourteen:**** A Fight Between Giants**

"A fight between giants, in which the forces of good are engaged in merciless combat with the armies of evil, aimed at the deliverance of all particles of light held captive in the darkness of matter"

- Paul Ricoeur, _Evil: A Challenge to Philosophy and Theology_.

* * *

There would be no rest tonight, although the sun had finally given in to dark. Chuck found himself walking through the streets of his beloved city. There was the smell of rain about, but Chuck was fairly sure that the downpour would hold off. It was impossible to see the sky when the night was so inky black.

For the first time in quite a while, Chuck felt the urge to let the dark take him. Because there had been a time, once, where he had been almost entirely darkness: where day was merely a brief prelude to the pleasures of the night. There was something intoxicating about the tap-tap-tap of his shoes on the pavement as he prowled around a nightclub. Tap-tap-tap: the song that came with the night. It was the rhythm that told him he was free, that the night could bring anything, and that he could hold his own where the wild things were.

Lily's voice had been less than a whisper when he'd left her in that simple room at the Ostroff Centre. Although it was never truly dark in those walls, the shadows in the room had been so long that Chuck had been fearful for his stepmother, who had always seemed to be spun from light.

Chuck and Serena may have had a serendipitous relationship over the years, but he had always marvelled at the way she and her mother were always cast in light. The entire Van Der Woodsen clan had brought light into his house, and at the beginning he had been so full of good intentions, positive that things could honestly change. That finally an inexpressible void had been filled by blonde hair and laughter.

And far things had fallen since that time. Lily's voice had been so weak tonight, as she closed her eyes and let her stunning face slacken into repose. It was as if she had given up on life, given up on anything except the hope of a long sleep in long shadows.

"Thank you, Charles," she had said, softly.

Chuck could barely swallow when he stood awkwardly next to her bed. The pale spidery blue veins at her temple seemed too distinctive. She looked so delicate. He had always believed that those delicate things in the world should stay far out of his reach; they would be too easy to crush. He marvelled at Lily's willingness to surrender herself to him. He wanted to know why she would trust him with her unravelling.

But of course these words dried up, somewhere between his brain and his mouth. So he offered her the one thing he could guarantee. "You will have the best care. I will make sure of it."

"I know."

So he left, without promising to visit. Chuck knew himself well enough now to understand that he may not visit her at all, despite his worry. The appeal to his better angels was always hit and miss. And after his catastrophic lie the other night, Chuck was determined not to make false promises.

Blair was waiting for him.

* * *

The trouble was that Blair had played the scene in her head during the long walk to Chuck's apartment, drawing strength from the notion that she had planned their fight down to the finest detail. Nothing would surprise her.

It went something like this: he standing at the liquor cabinet with his back to her when the elevator ushered her into his private abode; she – the picture of girlfriend-ly sweetness – saying demurely that she had received his message, asking what it was they needed to talk about; him refusing to look at her and saying something like, "if it hadn't been moving so damned fast" or "it's just too much pressure", and she standing back, waiting for him to say it aloud; her face crumpling (not too much, though, just enough to look charmingly wounded) and saying that she had thought things were going so well, that she had been so thrilled to learn that college would not tear them apart, that she thought he would be pleased; and him, feeling overwhelmed by the long-suffering sadness in her face, taking her cheeks in his hands and kissing her, murmuring that he was sorry for being distant, that it seemed fast, but that if that was what she wanted, he was there; she saying that nothing had to change, that it just seemed terrifyingly new and that she would never force him to do anything he didn't want to do.

Nowhere in the plan had she foreseen the possibility that he would quite simply not show up.

It was like preparing yourself for the opening night of a performance, only to find that the auditorium was empty, that the show had been last night, and you had missed it. Blair found herself looking around the clearly deserted penthouse, wondering what could have been more important than the fight she had assumed they were going to have when he sent her that message: _we need to talk_. She had sensed that he was pulling away from her, in the face of her enthusiastic planning for Yale. But to show so little regard for her feelings, leaving her alone in his deserted house, that was a new level of cruelty. Because now all there was to do was wait.

Blair ran her fingers over the vases and books that decorated the living room, over the counter-top in the kitchen. It was a strange thing: a life on top of a hotel. It was luxurious, of course, but in her opinion, the phantom staff that cleaned these surfaces were doing the family a disservice. Because if there had been no army of subordinates, it would have been easier to notice that no one had spared a thought for the house in the last few weeks. It would have been more obvious that the stack of mail with Serena's name on it was growing in size. It would have been more obvious that Lily had taken to bed, although Blair quickly discovered that she was not at home either.

As it stood, the entire house was cold – too clean for it's inhabitants. At least at the Waldorf residence, Dorota was a palpable presence, picking up those stray items of clothing, mumbling in Polish when Blair made a mess without attempting to clean it up. For Chuck, though, things had always magically solved themselves. If he knocked over a vase, it simply disappeared: _poof_! Like magic.

Blair felt a familiar tug of sadness when she found the discreet stack of letters intended for Serena. There was one from Yale – unsurprising given Dean Baroby's PR campaign – and another from Brown, both large and full of promise.

It may have been some kind of premonition. Perhaps someone else had planned out the scene entirely, and she was capable of nothing other than blindly following their will. Because at that moment, Blair felt herself coming apart at the seams, becoming someone whose nerves were jittery, barely in control.

On her way to the apartment, she had seen a man with an enfeebled leg dragging up the street in the most eccentric gait imaginable. Like all others on the street, she avoided his eyes, embarrassed by his over-stated imperfection. It had seemed to her that his disobedient leg had led him everywhere, and that his body was helpless, following after.

A similar feeling overcame Blair as she started frantically searching through the house, looking for the letter. Wanting assurance, perhaps, that no matter what happened in the next few hours, Chuck would definitely go to Yale, so that even if she was no longer permitted to hold him, she could at least watch him from a distance. How weak love had made her: willing to take the merest crumbs from Chuck, where once she had demanded grand gestures.

She tore through the house, starting in his bedroom, knowing that she was in the wrong, completely aware that he would be furious at her invasion of privacy. If there was one thing that Chuck could never abide, it was the incursion of another into his private spaces. But she couldn't think of that as she looked under his bed, finding nothing more than an embarrassing pile of pornography and an even more shameful copy of _Twilight_ (even in her frenzied state, she smiled at the fact that the emerging Book Snob, Chuck Bass, would have a copy of the tween vampire novel. She was even more amused when she opened the front cover and saw Dan Humphrey's name printed neatly on the title-page).

There was a certain part of her that remained forensic and cool; she recognised that she should leave the apartment and wait for Chuck at a café, or even visit Vanessa and rant about Chuck's strange behaviour. But having commenced her search, she was determined to find something – _anything_ – that would give her a clue as to what was passing through his mind at the moment.

Of course, Chuck had always left his living space comparatively untouched. He floated in and out of this house, and apart from a few personal effects, you would never have known anything about him from his possessions. He was remarkably Spartan in that way, for someone so decadent in his hungers.

If searching Chuck's room had been a dreadful invasion of privacy, Blair knew that she had truly crossed over into insanity when she began ransacking the living room, and even the kitchen.

She had almost convinced herself to stop, when her eyes fell on the final drawer. The entire room seemed to be pointing at the drawer; the shadows were too long around it. With a sense of dread, she pulled it open, cringing as it squeaked slightly.

Stuffed unceremoniously into what had obviously been the nearest hiding place, was a large envelope. You got the big envelope, she thought as she opened it up and pulled out the top sheet. _We are happy to offer you admission to Princeton University._ She slid it back into the drawer. It was almost a relief to know that she wasn't paranoid. Although she couldn't quite take the measure of what her discovery meant, she could hear the steady beating of her heart, slightly louder than usual. There was a battle inside each person, her father had said. And she knew he was right. She could beat her fists, stamp her feet, and crow at the sky – and still not influence the outcome of this battle in the slightest.

Blair was surprised that her mind was surprisingly empty. But she needed to get out of this house, to go somewhere more neutral than Chuck's den. To go to where it all began.

There was nothing left to do but wait.

* * *

"You know," Eleanor said wistfully, watching Harold peel a mango over the sink. "At the time it seemed so important to get you here, but now that you've arrived, I really don't know why I insisted that you come."

Harold glanced at his ex-wife. He found her changed. Even though they had spent decades living with each other as man and wife, there had always been something false about their time together. He would wrestle with the pull of his inner life, drunk with the illicit pleasure that came with surrendering to his desires. And his wife had always seemed two-dimensional to him. Despite his own hidden persona, he had viewed Eleanor as a type of portrait of a wife. They completed a beautiful picture that had been dreamed up by an artist, but which would never come to life.

"I wanted to be here," he said simply.

She nodded, accepting a piece of mango as she leafed through a book of fabrics, making notes on the margin when she saw something she liked. If he ever had to conjure a picture of Eleanor for someone who had never met her, he would describe her that day in Morocco when she had stood in a market in Fez, marvelling at the silken fabrics that the dirt-poor street vendors would pull out for her. Harold had been preoccupied with his newfound passion for architectural photography, but when he had wandered over to his young wife, he had been so moved by the look on her face, that he'd turned his camera upon her.

He still had the photograph in his house in France; Roman had insisted that they put it in Blair's room.

She looked so young in it, and her sunglasses were perched on the top of her head in a way that she had always hated. Because at that moment for her there was no thought of propriety or appearance. There was nothing more than toffee silk that flowed like water. Here, in this dirty corner of an alien city, Eleanor had found something beautiful. And that still and hot night, after they made love on a bed near an open window, Eleanor had turned her brown eyes upon him.

"I think I've figured out what I want to do when I grow up."

"Well do tell me, dear one," Harold smiled.

Even lying down, her chin had raised slightly, as if defying him to criticize her dream. "I want to open a fashion house."

It had been a time of dreams and possibilities. Harold had no sense then that he would one day fail her so completely. They made promises to each other that night. And even though their wedding vows would one day be broken, the dream that had begun that day was never undone. "Then open a fashion house, you shall."

"So tell me, dear one," he said with a smile, trying to extricate himself from the past. "What are we going to do about our daughter?"

Eleanor shrugged helplessly. "There doesn't seem to be much that we can do. I thought that by bringing you here – that the united front of both of us would somehow counter the influence that Charles has over her. But I'm starting to think that the situation has passed beyond either of our influences."

Harold sighed. "It's a cruel irony with children, isn't it? I mean, you spend years having them depend on you for everything, with you being the centre of their worlds. And then the only indication that you've done a good job and created a fully functioning human being is when they reject your influence entirely."

"Parenting's a bitch," Eleanor drawled.

He let out a bark of laughter. "Very eloquent."

"I think we had too easy a ride of it with Blair. She never had a wild side, even when Serena was completely off the rails and Lily was tearing her hair out. But she always had a dark side. Charles saw it in her. Admired it, even. Allowed her to explore it."

Harold frowned. "I think it's more Charles' influence than Blair's."

It was Eleanor's turn to laugh. "Please, our daughter is a student of Machiavelli. She found a partner-in-crime in Charles, certainly, but don't be naïve; she had Chuck as a henchman long before she…"

"Had sex with him the school library?" Harold grumbled.

Eleanor regarded Harold, suddenly aware that the power in their relationship with Blair had shifted. Where once he had been the favoured parent, he now stood as an outsider, with his nose pressed against the glass of the insight that Eleanor could offer. It was a pleasant feeling and she took a vindictive pleasure in it.

"You only had to hear about it: I had it live in technicolour when Cyrus and I returned from the honeymoon to find them in dishabille."

Harold grimaced. "I suppose that locking her in the attic until she reaches thirty is not an option?"

Eleanor sighed. "If you're worried about protecting her honour, I think that ship may have already sailed."

"Is it strange that I am simultaneously repulsed by the information I garner about my daughter's social life and compulsively interested in it? There is just so much about Blair's life that is a mystery to me."

Eleanor flashed him a guilty look, a look of assessment. "Well…no, it doesn't matter."

"What?"

His ex-wife stared at him from lowered eyelids: her contrite, sneaky look. He had learnt to fear and appreciate that look in the course of their marriage. "I was just going to say that there is one way we could get all the information we need…although it is incredibly underhanded and a total invasion of privacy. You know what? Forget I mentioned it."

Interest piqued, Harold pursed his lips. Teetering for an instant on the verge of shooting her down immediately, Harold remembered just how far from his daughter's life he had wandered. Sighing at Eleanor's devious antics, he gestured for her to continue.

"There is some website that the kids are obsessed with. I mean, there is no guarantee that Blair is actually on the site, but apparently it reports anonymous gossip with a focus on Constance and St Jude's." Eleanor's voice was thick with temptation. "I think you need a student email address to log on - "

"Not that you have shamelessly visited the site already," Harold muttered.

"But I have a feeling that we may have a back route…"

Harold sighed. This was not the parent he had wanted to be. He knew that Roman would throw a fit if he heard that Harold was even considering cyber-spying on Blair. And he never would have, if he hadn't suddenly found himself exceedingly out of the loop of his daughter's life – and weighing up his views on her prodigal boyfriend. Eleanor was dangling an insight into Blair's life in front of him, wanting only his approval. Harold felt his resolve crumbling.

"What's this back route?"

With a flush of victory, Eleanor turned away from her ex-husband and called out for her maid. When the nervous Polish woman materialized in the doorway, Eleanor gave her a predatory smile. "Dorota," she said sweetly. "Mr. Waldorf and I were hoping that you could help us with something."

With only the briefest hesitation, Dorota nodded. "Of course, Mrs. Waldorf."

The poor woman didn't even see the trap that Eleanor was laying for her. "What can you tell us about _Gossip Girl_?"

* * *

No matter what happened – even if the place lost more money than it made, even if New York city passed arcane prohibitions on the consumption of alcohol, even if it cost him everything – Chuck would never close Victrola.

The cavernous main room was full to the brim even on this weeknight, and Chuck was relieved that he would not be forced to make a determination on the bar's future. It had survived it's fledgling days admirably and was thriving in its maturity.

Chuck wished that he could say the same for him and Blair.

He had rehearsed what he would say, of course. And, judging by her choice of venue, Blair had been putting some thought into the trajectory of the confrontation. Her sudden decision to bring him here – it had to have some meaning. But Chuck couldn't for the life of him discern her intention.

Especially when she chose to wait for him in that old room with dusty mirrors, where he had taken her on the night he left the city crumbling behind him.

Despite his trepidation, he still noticed how beautiful she was by these dim lights. The only points of light in the entire room came from outside, seeping through the cracks at the base of the door and casting a dim glow through the windows that had been whited out for privacy. And still, those masks decorated the walls.

"What are you doing back here, Blair?"

She looked like she had just stepped down from a picture of Old Hollywood in her high-waisted skirt and impossibly high heels. He half expected her to reply with a line from one of her favourite films. But when she spoke, her voice was tight with carefully controlled emotions and her eyes betrayed nothing.

"I thought it was neutral ground."

In Chuck's opinion, there was nothing neutral about the ground. He was ashamed of his behaviour that night, and these walls brought to mind only heartache and loss. It seemed that they had reverted once more into gamesmanship. Blair's game seemed to have cast him in the role of villain. Chuck eyed himself in the old mirrors that lined the walls.

Perhaps this was the only role he was able to play. Easier, somehow, to be the villain than to play the failure. It had been his failure to get into Yale that caused this mess. Well, actually, it had been his insistence on lying about it that had gotten them into this mess. But as he regarded himself in the mirrors over Blair's shoulder, Chuck mused that he looked the part of the cad that night. The angles of his face seemed to point to darkness.

"Is there anything you want to say to me, Chuck?"

How he hated that question. The irritating tone of it made his posture cringe away from her. It had been a mistake to come here after putting Lily in the Ostroff Centre. He was at wit's end. "No, I'm just enjoying you reading aloud from the _Book of Relationship Clichés_. Please continue."

That had, in retrospect, been the wrong thing to say. Blair's expression grew even more grim. She crossed her arms. "Fine. If you don't have anything to say, how about I say a few things to you?"

Chuck leant against the table that filled the centre of the room. Running a tired hand across his eyes, he sighed. Blair only ever acted this way when she had a card up her sleeve. Perhaps Dan or Vanessa had clued her into what was going on? Or maybe he had found yet another way to screw up.

"Say what you have to say," he said tightly.

It was unfair of him to force her to say it. It was unfair to act as if this was all her doing. And Blair had never been one to suffer injustice lightly. Even as her irritation grew, she noticed how exhausted he seemed and a part of her wanted to run over, stroke his hair and ask him to tell her all about it. "I know that you got into Princeton."

_There_, Chuck thought. He expected to feel relief, but instead, he felt a coiling dread in his stomach. Here came the moment when he was exposed. Here came the moment when the light shifted and she saw him for what he was.

Right on cue, her chin lifted and a tight smile appeared on her face. It was her fight pose. And out of sheer instinct, he straightened his back and clenched his jaw. They would begin by dancing around each other. This was familiar. This was routine. But one thing neither of them saw was that murky space after the preliminary steps were taken.

"Well, then," he drawled. "Looks like you know everything. You're a veritable rain man."

"That's hard to deny, of course," Blair said sweetly, as cool as the surface of a mirror. "So what is it, Bass? Are you getting cold feet? Is that what this is?"

"What are you talking about?"

She walked towards him with a cat-like prowl. "You seemed to excited about going to Yale with me. But then the morning dawned and you got scared. And instead of just telling me like a grown up, you decided to just leave me on the helipad again."

The sheer lunacy of it took the air from Chuck's lungs. She honestly had no idea the lengths to which he had tried to go to make her fantasy come to life. The notion that she would imagine that he would want anything other than to be with her as much as possible stole his breath away.

"Is that really what you think?"

The forlorn tone of his voice made her pause for an instant. It had seemed like the most likely scenario when she had arrived at Victrola, puzzling over what she had discovered. Even as the conclusion had come together, she had been convinced that there was a missing piece. But now that she had said it aloud, there seemed nothing else to do but cling to her certainty. No matter how wounded he looked at the accusation.

"It is."

He was to be the villain tonight, even though he had come to tell her the truth. But standing here with her hard face staring at him, Chuck found the words die in his throat. Surely there was nothing quite as intolerable as finding out what your loved ones really thought of you. The muffled sound of the merriment outside did nothing to drown out the thudding of Chuck's head. He couldn't think of a thing to say.

Blair tried to make her voice strong, but it came out pitifully. "You're not going to Yale, are you?"

"No," he whispered, avoiding her eyes. Even as the distant, rational part of his brain clamoured for attention, urging him to tell her the whole story, he found that his traitorous mouth refused to form the words.

"Then why did you say that you were?" she whispered.

Chuck found that his eyes refused to meet hers and instead focussed on the chipped corner of the table. "I don't know," he said honestly.

"Well then there doesn't really seem to be much left to say," she said. But for some reason, she didn't move to the door. She seemed to be appraising him. "You know, I asked my father why he hates you."

"Yeah?" Chuck said bitterly, stung by Blair's frankness. "And was he able to distil the number one reason, or was there more a hierarchical list?"

"He said that you're at war with yourself."

"What a startling revelation. Move over, Freud – Harold Waldorf is here with a probing insight."

Blair ignored his sarcasm. "I told him that you loved me."

Chuck nodded, mutely. There was nothing he was more certain of, and once more that rational part of his brain urged him to just tell her. But tonight was not a night for rationalism. Nothing was working tonight. [1]

"He said that it wasn't enough," Blair said, still regarding his mute form. "And he's right. You're still lost, Chuck. And I thought I'd be enough. I thought that if we finally knew how we felt about each other, then you'd stop being this lost soul. I believed in us. But, I can't keep taking it on faith alone. I can't keep protecting you from my parents with nothing in return."

Chuck somehow managed to locate his voice, but a combination of fury and frustration had changed it into something harsh. Blair's eyes flashed almost fearfully when he spoke. "What do you want?" he spat disdainfully. "What kind of _guarantee_ are you looking for? You want jewellery, Blair? You want me to buy you some jewellery? That's what Nate always did and you'd forgive him for anything. I've got money, Waldorf. You want money?"

Furious, she felt tears forming in her eyes. They were reflected again and again in the mirrors on the walls of this room, where she had chased him the night he left for Bangkok. "How about the truth in return? How about that? How about I don't have to ransack your house to figure out why you're acting strangely? How about you tell me the truth about what you're feeling?"

"You don't want the truth," Chuck said, almost sadly. "You want the dream."

Part of her was horrified by the direction of this conversation, but Blair knew that she couldn't let this go. She would lose herself completely if she gave in on the one thing she hated. She'd once said it to Jenny Humphrey – she hated secrets more than anything.

"You _owe_ me the truth," she shouted, not caring that tears were streaming and that he would see them. They had passed that at least. "Because I'm the one taking all the risks, I'm the one who's acting like your wife without anything in return. Because I'm the one gambling on Chuck Bass - "

He snorted bitterly. "So you don't trust me. That's what this is all about. You think I'm lying to you. You still think I'm fucking people behind your back. You keep me on too short a leash to even have the chance. But it's not enough, is it? Nothing I do is enough."

Her voice was ragged. "How can you blame me for not trusting you? You say one thing and do another. What else are you hiding from me?"

"You're never going to trust me, are you?" Through his fury, he didn't even care that his words were making her shoulders shake and tears spill down her face. "What's it going to take? What the hell is it going to take?"

She shook her head mutely. This had been what she was scared of, how loving him would leave her open for this sort of torment. They were too good at hurting people. Frustrated at her lack of response, Chuck grabbed her arms, all but shaking her.

"What do you want me to do? Why won't you tell me?"

For an instant, in this old room that never seemed to be used, Blair felt a thrill of cruelty. "What – are you going to do what you did last time we were here? You going to teach me a lesson, Chuck?"

She could have slapped him. He recoiled as if she had. The instant she said it, with that grim satisfaction that told her she'd won, she regretted it. Because that night when he had pushed her more than he should have, and she'd only been partly in the room – that had been something that they'd never spoken about. And now he was looking at her as if he didn't know her at all. That was the price of winning.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, into the new space between them. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry."

He looked down, swallowing his shame, swallowing her remark – storing the sound of her ugly words in that part of his brain that whispered to him when his world fell apart. It was worse for him, really. He's never allowed himself to feel strongly enough about anyone to be truly hurt by their opinion of him. He couldn't look at her, so he looked at those masks that lined the top of the room and remembered every ugly thing that Bart had ever said to him and every time he had let Blair down.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Princeton," he said quietly. "But I think you should go."

How quickly the mood had shifted. Blair stepped towards him, terrified of his tone. "Chuck – come on, we can talk about this."

"I think we've done enough talking tonight."

"You don't get to end this conversation like this Chuck," she said, stricken. "I'm sorry for what I said, but you can't just dismiss me, like - "

"Fine. Then I'll leave."

And he did, avoiding her eyes the whole time.

* * *

Serena woke up feeling grim about the mouth in the damp weather that had come over Boston that day.[2] To be so close to home, and yet to feel so distant was intolerable that morning, and so Serena set about performing every task as miserably as possible. It seemed that every person she walked passed was rude and abrasive – and Serena had to call upon all of her good graces to prevent herself from punching each last one of them in the back of the heads.

The same good grace did not extend to Nate. She knew that she was behaving badly towards him, but found that his long-suffering good humour did nothing to assuage her irrational anger at everyone. Although, judging by his enthusiastic departure when she suggested that he go out alone today, her constant complaining and monosyllabic grunting were starting to wear upon even Nate's nerves.

It could have been his imagination, but he could almost have sworn that the instant he left their claustrophobic room, the day brightened and the city beckoned to him. Nonetheless, after that initial elation, he found that Boston held little appeal for him. Perhaps it was because he had been there only weeks earlier with Serena. But Nate had the sneaking suspicion that it was their close proximity to New York that had both Serena and he so feeling so wretched.

He tried to enjoy asking tourists to take photos of him Fenway's Bleacher Bar. But it only reminded him that he was alone and that he couldn't send the picture to Chuck; he honestly had no idea whether they were even friends these days.

Strolling along Charles River, Nate found that the promise of sunlight breaking through the clouds was illusory; the day grew steadily more miserable. And more than once, he found himself thinking of his best friend.

His musings began simply enough, staring into the small waves of the river. He remembered the way that Chuck had so selflessly handed over his coveted Babe Ruth ball when Nate had fallen victim to Carter Baizen's scheming. It had been that night when Nate had stood at the door to the bar that Chuck had rented out and told him in no uncertain terms that the life he led – the life _they_ led – was no more than an opiate designed to distract them from reality.

It was unsurprising that Chuck had reacted so forcefully. At that time in his life, Chuck had been a firm believer in the concept that reality is an illusion caused by lack of drugs.[3] It was Chuck's life that Nate was sanctimoniously rejecting. And so, Chuck had asked him what it was Nate was looking for.

"What is _it_?" Chuck had asked in that frustrated tone, which had irked him at the time. Because it had seemed that Chuck was forcing him to choose a different path. If Chuck's life was so empty, then Nate had better come up with a decent alternative.

Of course, Nate had not known what to say and later in the evening Chuck had proven once more that it wasn't a lifestyle choice that united the two of them. Chuck was, quite simply, Nate's boy.

It was so long ago now, and since that time reams of paper could have been filled with a catalogue of the ways in which their relationship had changed. Since that time, Nate had found that his best friend had been lying to him. Not about his relationship with Blair, not even about his relationship with his father. Chuck had been hiding a quality that now seemed to define him in Nate's eyes.

Chuck possessed a capacity for love that had been entirely hidden from his best friend.

It was almost as if a ghostly Chuck were standing beside him, rolling his eyes at Nate's train of thought.

"Are we going steady, Nathaniel?" his best friend would say.

To hear a voice so clearly in your mind and to draw such comfort from it's mockery. Surely that was a sign that they would always be friends. His friendship with Chuck may have gone through some terrible changes, Nate may have acted like a jerk, but his relationship with his best friend had changed him. Nate could one day be an old man, with grey hair at his temples and the beginning of a paunch. Nate could one day exile himself to the farthest corner of the earth. Regardless, he would never be able to talk about his childhood without mentioning Chuck Bass. He would never be able to describe his first relationship without admitting that his first girlfriend was really meant to be with Chuck Bass.

While he might once have been bitter about Chuck's voice invading his head, Nate found that today, this small token of Chuck's presence was welcome. Chuck had never been the voice of Nate's better angels, but he had always stood for something utterly unique. His friendship with Chuck had always been a welcome respite form what had, until recently, been an utterly normal (if more lavish and privileged) upbringing.

He was lucky enough to be a member of the handful of people who Chuck really did love. And to be loved by someone as impossible as Chuck: surely there was an achievement in that. At the moment, it was the only achievement that Nate could remember.

It was not a sentiment that Nate could ever say to Chuck. But, unbidden and wavering somewhere at the periphery of Nate's vision, a certainty came upon him.

For one moment, Nate was confident – certain – that some day things would calm down and they would all be happy. Because standing in another city, Nate was able to think about his friend's recent successes and feel happy for him. With the clarity that comes with time and distance, Nate realized that he had been jealous to see their roles so unceremoniously reversed.

And it was time for Nate to find a life for himself. Even though he still didn't know what _it_ was – he knew that it was time to stop running.

Back at the motel, Serena had been puzzling over something for hours. She was at a loss, picking up her phone and putting it down, staring at the name that sat at the top of her favourites: Dan Humphrey.

So long had passed with no contact, that she wondered whether she really had a right to dial his number. She had been so terrified and exhilarated by her quest for Dan and her half-brother, and so uncertain about what it would mean for them, that she had very quietly stepped out of his life, causing barely a ripple. Compound that unforgivable desertion with her strange relationship with Nate, and surely she would be the last person that Dan wanted to hear from. Just last night she had embraced Nate once more in this strange dance they seemed to be performing.

To call Dan seemed to be a betrayal, although Serena was not entirely sure whom she would be betraying.

He had always called her presumptuous – part of her Serena Van Der Woodsen complex. But now that the grey drizzle of the outside world was starting to wear down on her soul, all she wanted to do was talk to him.

All she wanted to do was go home.

* * *

Somewhere along the way, when the heavens opened and dropped their load directly on Chuck's head, he had come to the irrefutable conclusion that this was all Humphrey's fault. So, he had decided to commute all the way to Brooklyn to give Dan a piece of his mind.

Unfortunately, when he arrived at the Humphrey's house, Dan was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh god," Rufus said in mock-horror when he opened the door. "What have we done to deserve a visit from Chuck Bass?"

Rufus took a moment to take in Chuck's bedraggled appearance. The usually immaculate boy looked like he had been doused by water. His eyes were red – whether because of the cold or because of some surreptitious, embarrassing tearfulness, Rufus didn't know. What in the world could upset Chuck Bass? What on earth could touch Chuck Bass enough to make him this distraught? The more pertinent question, of course, was what would hurt him in such an elemental way that he would actually come to Brooklyn?

"I'm looking for the younger Humphrey," he rasped, his eyes guarded.

"Male or female?"

The thought of Jenny Humphrey startled Chuck. He had all but forgotten about Jenny. She had passed out from under his radar. Although he had noticed with a mute, unwilling approval that she seemed to be finding her independence. After her failed attempt at independence, she could have skulked back into the walls of Constance as a spectre. But instead, she walked in head held high. Unapologetic. So changed from the person she had once been. A fellow pilgrim, in Chuck's eyes. Someone searching with hand outstretched for a promised destination, but uncertain how long it would take to get there.

Blair had said it best, when Eric had been entertaining them with a story of Jenny's biting sarcasm. It was an almost proud smile that came over her. "I have to hand it to Little J: she's got spunk."

"Male," Chuck said after a brief hesitation.

"Dan's not here," Rufus said, noting the way Chuck's shoulders slumped. "Would you like to come in, anyway?"

Rufus knew better than to say, _would you like to talk about it?_ Although he had always thought that Chuck had much more to offer than his late father, he also knew that Chuck was too proud to be treated with condescension. He could see the boy teeter on the edge of the threshold. He clearly wanted to talk, but his pride demanded an excuse. His pride demanded that he have a viable reason to enter the house with the man he still irrationally blamed for Bart's death.

"Do you have a drink?"

Rufus felt a brief prickle of parental disapproval, but knew that he not only had no claim of protectiveness over the boy and that he could probably go and seek some out himself if he really wanted to. He could probably seek out anything he wanted. Rufus had reached a satisfying point of his life where other people's wealth no longer bothered him. There had once been a time when the presence of effete, privileged people like Chuck Bass would have caused a deep burn in his soul. Now he saw Chuck's frowning mouth and the way his shoulders sloped: his burden was too heavy tonight. He was a boy posing as a man and he needed a drink.

"I have a bottle of Aberlour scotch knocking around."

"Fine," he sighed dramatically before brushing passed Rufus and planting himself on one of the high stools at the kitchen counter.

As Rufus busied himself with glasses and the scotch he had been saving for a special occasion, he stole glances at Chuck. He had never seen the family resemblance between Bart and Chuck. There had been something mechanical about Bart Bass: a core of iciness which seemed at odds with the fire that burned in the eyes of the man's son.

Chuck was, quite simply, everything Bart disapproved of, but sharing just enough superficial qualities of the man himself that he could be tolerated. Perhaps Rufus was being too hard on Bart, but in his experience, the man hated the showy gestures that came so naturally to his son. He would have disdained Chuck's huffy entrance. He would have rolled his eyes at the way Chuck attempted to straighten his hair. The only thing he would have approved of was the mask that was so securely in place on Chuck's face; there was a lazy disapproval etched in his features that made even a man as secure as Rufus Humphrey feel slightly less-than, slightly unruly, perhaps unsightly. Even though it was Chuck who looked like he had just swim in from Australia – and who was wearing a superfluous purple cravat that must have been sodden wet.

"You don't talk as much as your son," Chuck observed.

Rufus smiled. "Can you tell my children that?"

Chuck's mind seemed to be elsewhere; his mouth rested on a clenched fist. It was only by sliding a glass of the expensive scotch his way that Rufus could force the gesture to soften slightly. "Where's Jenny?"

"At some art opening," Rufus shrugged. "Three-hundred and thirty years of fashion. I stopped listening when she promised that I wouldn't have to go."

"You trust her," Chuck observed with a measure of bitterness.

"I do," Rufus nodded. "Try your drink." That had been a misstep; Chuck would never do something he was ordered to do. Now it would take twice as long to loosen the boy's tongue. "So what brings you to Brooklyn?"

"I come for the scenery," Chuck deadpanned, his eyes closed for a moment, as if Rufus's question had offended him. "I enjoy watching the unkempt in their natural habitat."

"And so you decided to blend in among us by dunking your head in bucket of water?"

"I used the troughs that line the streets," Chuck said with a malign smile.

Rufus waited.

"I came to kick your son's ass," Chuck admitted, taking a burning sip of scotch.

"Right," Rufus said, not particularly concerned. "What did he do?"

Chuck looked away; frowning at something on his side of the counter before peeling off an apple sticker that one of the kids had stuck there. Rufus was amused to see that Chuck's aesthetic would not countenance the slight aberration. On the eve of that disastrous dinner for Jenny, he had seen Blair Waldorf frown at a haphazard pile of records before straightening them. Rufus knew better than to assume they were being helpful; they simply shared a similar love of the visual.

"He gave me the world's worst advice," Chuck explained, downing his drink before shoving the glass over in a tacit request for more.

"What did he tell you to do?"

"He told me to be _honest_," Chuck spat. "Probably as a twisted retribution for my trying to bribe him to give up Yale."

"You tried to bribe my son to give up college?" Rufus asked incredulously. For a brief instant, he had the urge to perpetrate some kind of violence against Chuck. Perhaps he could punch him, or throw a glass at him. The shock of impact and the satisfying pearls of blood that would run down his face.

Chuck waved him off dismissively. "I offered to pay for the college of his choice if he let me have his place at Yale."

Rufus was not a violent man, but he felt lingering anger at the boy who sat in his kitchen and drank his scotch. Of all his life's accomplishments, Rufus was most proud of Dan. Dan and Jenny, he mentally amended the statement. Of course he was proud of his daughter's single-minded passion. He was convinced she would do great things. But with Dan, there was a sensitivity that Rufus longed to protect. Dan had a deeply engrained moral compass, despite the occasional missteps, and Rufus was more than proud of Dan's achievements.

"Why would you do something like that?" Rufus asked, containing his anger.

Chuck downed another glass, far too quickly to enjoy it. In the most careless, throw away way possible, Chuck shrugged. "I couldn't go behind his back. He's my friend."

With a sick sense of realization, Rufus realized the degree to which the boy's moral education had been neglected. In his mind, there was no question of using Dan as a pawn in his game. That was a certainty: it was the price of doing business. It was with a sick thrill that Rufus realized that Chuck could have simply cast off Dan's future like a discarded Kleenex. He could have taken it away: all of it. Perhaps Rufus wasn't as comfortable with other people's wealth as he had thought.

But another feeling quickly followed his horrified realization. Despite years of neglect, there was at least one sliver of innocent purity inside Chuck Bass. It was not a moral system, not really. There was no sense of right and wrong in an organised way. There was merely an invisible line. And when you crossed over that line, you were under Chuck's protection. Rufus's son, in his eternally endearing way, had crossed over that line. And so Chuck could never countenance betrayal.

"Of course," Rufus said, more gently after this realization. When he neglected to refill Chuck's glass, the boy did it for him. Rufus was almost touched when Chuck paused before pouring his own drink and instead needlessly filled Rufus's first. Never mind that it was Rufus's house and his booze. Another sliver of purity, then. "Who did Dan want you to be honest with?"

Chuck pursed his lips, not looking at Rufus. If he had looked at Rufus and really _seen_ who it was that he was talking to, he never would have divulged the name. The way he said the name nearly took Rufus' breath away. Never had a name sounded so precious and dangerous. "Blair Waldorf."

It made sense. Because Rufus could honestly not imagine Chuck with anyone; there were some people who would never be satisfied with loving just anyone. Honestly, he could imagine Blair with someone she felt lukewarm about; as long as there was money and status enough to fill her up. But not Chuck. Another form of purity, Rufus mused. He was a Machiavellian philanderer, obviously, but he would never settle for anyone ordinary.

Blair Waldorf was many things, but she was not ordinary.

"I see," Rufus said, without voicing any of the thoughts that had run through his head at Chuck's admission. "You lied to her? About Yale?"

Chuck laughed bitterly. There was absolutely no humour in it. "Of course I did. How can you tell someone that you can't make her dream come true because you're too much of a fuck-up?"

"She wanted you to go with her to Yale," Rufus said, piecing it together.

"Thank you, Captain Narrative," Chuck said, irritated. "If you can't follow the story maybe you'd like to give me some crayons and butcher's paper so I can write it all down for you?"

Rufus smiled and sipped his drink. "Fine, I'll be quiet."

Chuck glanced at Rufus a few times during the long silence that followed. "She's fucking gorgeous, you know."

Startled, Rufus nodded. "She's very attractive."

"She's amazing," Chuck said. But the observation didn't seem to bring him any pleasure. "And she's a total fucking bitch."

Cringing at the obscenities, Rufus almost laughed. "Do me a favour, okay? Don't get that engraved on the wedding ring."

Rufus had obviously been joking, but at his words, Chuck clenched his jaw and leaned more heavily on the table. "Blair won't end up with me."

"How can you possibly know that, at your age?" Rufus was being kind. He secretly agreed with the boy. His own love life still hadn't sorted itself out – what hope did Chuck Bass have?

Finally, the eyes settled on Rufus. Chuck may have forgotten himself for a few drinks. But now he seemed acutely aware of who he was talking to. So when he spoke next, Rufus knew that this was a conscious admission.

"Because soon enough she'll realize what I am and she'll leave me for someone who deserves her."

"And what are you?"

"I am history, repeating itself over and over again." And with that, Chuck stood. "Thank you for the drink. Tell Dan I'll kick his ass tomorrow."

Rufus found himself tongue-tied and rooted to the spot. But, seeing Chuck show himself to the door, and the way that his shoulders squared before he faced the outside world.

"Chuck?"

The boy paused and glanced over his shoulder, without turning around. "Oh god, is this going to be unsolicited Humphrey advice?"

"It's a compulsion," Rufus smiled. "I just wanted to tell you that I spent my youth trying to look invincible to women. Until one day I realized that the one thing that a woman can't resist is a moment of vulnerability."

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "I can't believe I'm taking romantic advice from Dan Humphrey's father. He has about as much game as a wet sock. It's a miracle that Serena ever went out with him."

"We Humphrey men are irresistible," Rufus shrugged.

Another mistake; both their minds flashed to the fateful night at the Snowflake Ball when Chuck had seen Lily slipping Bart's fingers and had called his father to bring him there. Rufus saw Chuck clam up and searched his mind for the right thing to say. Chuck's hand had reached the sliding door when Rufus once more interrupted his progress.

"One more thing. You're eighteen years old – you've still got a life time of fuck ups and victories ahead of you. Don't act like the game is over. History doesn't have to repeat itself."

Chuck didn't acknowledge him in any way. But when he was already out the door, he paused for an instant.

"There's something of yours at the Ostroff Centre," he said flatly. "I suggest you go and claim it."

With that, Chuck left the building, left with only the warm feeling of scotch in this stomach and a lingering sense that he had said too much.

* * *

It had been a long time since Blair had considered the Waldorf penthouse her home. Since she and Chuck had surrendered themselves to their feelings, Blair had been stateless. She had been a refugee in Chuck's apartment.

He never said it outright, but she knew that he loved having her in his house, and she had never really considered what it would mean to her family to have her suddenly so pointedly absent for these walls.

And until now, she had never really considered what that must have felt like for her family. It was strange, the feeling of being a stranger in your own house.

When she arrived home, she found the place unnaturally quiet. She had assumed that her parents must be out for the evening, but to her surprise she found both Eleanor and Harold sitting quietly in the living room. In her emotional state, hair in ratty tendrils after getting soaked in the rain, she barely noticed the look they exchanged when she entered. All she wanted to do was climb into her bed and try to forget the horrible words she had said to Chuck, and the way he had so carelessly brushed away her fantasy of going to college with him.

"Hello Blair," Eleanor said stiffly, jolting Blair from her contemplative state. "I'm surprised to see you home."

"I hope it's okay," Blair said hesitantly.

Another mysterious look passed between her parents. With a burgeoning awareness of her surroundings, Blair looked at her father's face. He seemed older than usual, and his eyes had a strange, absent look. It wasn't the look he usually wore when he saw her.

"Where are Cyrus and Roman?"

"Roman is catching up with friends," Harold said quietly. "And Cyrus is at work."

"I'm sorry, but do you guys mind if I just go to my room? I had a rough night."

Eleanor pursed her lips. "Did you and Charles get into a fight?"

"You could say that," Blair said, still uncertain about where this conversation was going. There was something about their bearing that made her uncertain. "He's not going to Yale."

She certainly didn't miss the victorious look that passed between them at that. Both of them seemed to relax slightly.

"It's probably for the best, dear," Eleanor said solemnly. "It has become extremely clear to us that your involvement with that boy has gotten _way_ out of hand."

Blair realized suddenly that she knew that tone of voice. It was this voice that her mother had used when she had opened the door of the bathroom to find Blair hunched over it. The moment of humiliating exposure, the rush of excuses, and then her mother's voice telling her that this was getting out of hand. That she _would_ be undergoing treatment.

Blair felt her defences rise. "What are you talking about?"

Another impenetrable look passed between them, before Eleanor couldn't contain herself. "Or would you say that you were acting in your right mind when you took your clothes off at that bar of his? Or when you had sex with Nate _and_ Charles in the course of a week?"

There was only one place they could have found out about this, unless Serena had stopped by to divulge all of Blair's secrets. With a lurch, Blair realized that the line between her family world and her social world was blurring. "It sounds like the two of you have been busy reading _Gossip Girl_."

Harold cleared his throat. "Now, Blair. You're an adult now. And obviously we cannot control whom you choose to…socialize with. But I am more concerned with the other reports. About your sabotaging Serena at Ivy Week – about your plotting against Georgina Sparks. This is _not_ the daughter I raised - "

"The daughter _you _raised," Eleanor interrupted with eyebrows raised. "You haven't been doing a huge amount of child-rearing over the last few years."

"And you can talk," Harold shot back. "Under this very roof you allowed this relationship…this strategic partnership…to unfold. Not that you've ever had much idea what was going on in Blair's life."

Eleanor chuckled humourlessly. "And even less of an idea what was happening between my husband and my business associates behind closed doors."

"This is not about me, this is about the behaviour _you _encouraged," Harold spat. "Admit it – you revel in the underhanded. You're hardly a role model for honesty…"

"Because there was nothing underhanded about years of infidelity," Eleanor retorted.

"That's enough," Blair interrupted. "That's just – it's enough. You know what? Maybe I'm just a bad person. And maybe it's no one's fault. Maybe it's just how I am. And that's probably why Chuck and I can't…why he won't…"

She didn't even notice herself dissolving into tears. But, the crushing weight of what had transpired between them pressed down on her shoulders until she couldn't stand the pressure of it. Love had made her weak and vulnerable, she thought as she wept bitterly in front of her feuding parents.

She didn't even notice which of them came to her first, but soon enough she was cocooned between the warmth of her mother and father, who spoke to her with those baby words that meant nothing and everything. Before any of them knew it, they were all sitting on the marble floor.

"I just love him so much," she spluttered. "Why isn't it enough?"

Eleanor hushed her, stroking her hair. "It's not your fault, dear. Everyone has their own demons. All we can do is wait to see how everything turns out. You've done all you can."

Her sobs had finally begun so subside, but both Eleanor and Harold saw the concern in each other's eyes.

* * *

Would it always be this way? Would blonde hair and a five-year-old laugh always drive a wedge between her dream and their reality?

It was unfair, really. Always having to be twice as understanding; Vanessa was the best friend first and the – girlfriend, perhaps, or a lover – second. And even now, it was always her instinct to make things easier for him, even if it meant that they were more difficult for her. Being with Dan, having to bury her feelings so that their friendship could survive: made her become smaller than she was.

Vanessa and Dan had been watching the _Royal Tenenbaums_ – both of them remembered enjoying the film, but neither could quite remember why. It was still murky: this space beyond friendship but still full of ambiguity. They had watched films before, only now his arm was around her. They had acted like a couple for years, but now that she felt free to touch him, something made her hesitate.

Nonetheless, it was comfortable, and Vanessa relished the notion that things were finally how they were meant to be. If part of her missed the passion burning in the pit of her stomach that she'd had with Nate, a larger part of her sternly reminded herself about his desertion.

She could be satisfied with this, she thought. But Dan would always have a poet's mind and a poet's feelings. Every time his eyes would go unfocused and stare at the wide blue sky, Vanessa was certain that he was thinking about Serena. She was the spectre that followed their every move. And even though Vanessa tried to reassure herself that she had known Dan first, had a claim over him long before her blonde friend, there was sense of guilt there.

So when the phone rang and Dan blankly stared at the screen, Vanessa felt a wave of anticipation.

"It's Serena," Dan said flatly.

"Wow, Serena," Vanessa said unenthusiastically, creating a new space between them.

"I should probably answer it," he rationalised. "It could be an emergency."

"Could be."

She watched him leave the room without comment. He's your best friend, she reminded herself. But as the door to her bedroom closed behind him, she couldn't silence the voice inside of her that urged her to spread her wings and leave this place. It felt like a delay. She had always needed to be free.

But she hushed the voices. This was just how things were meant to be. Or rather, this was how things were.

In the dim light of Vanessa's bedroom, Dan answered the phone. "Serena," he breathed. "Where are you?"

There was a long-suffering sigh on the other side of the line. It sounded like relief. His voice and nothing more could elicit that sound from her lips. And for a moment he was filled with the memory of her. But the sound of the _Royal Tenenbaums_ – unpaused – brought him back to earth.

"What do you want, Serena?"

"I'm coming home," she said quietly. "And I wanted to know whether you'd be happy to see me."

That was question, wasn't it? "A lot has changed," Dan said quietly. "It's been a long time of…well nothing."

"I know."

For some reason, there seemed to be nothing left to say. But the old lovers sat on the phone for a full minute before Serena sighed again. The silence was loaded, but it was a tiny space in the conversation, where Serena was sure she could crawl into.

"Goodbye Dan," she said, finally before snapping her phone shut.

She sat for a long time, thinking about the empty spaces in her life and longing to return to the place she had fled from so suddenly. It seemed as if this trip had been a mistake. She was coming back empty-handed – and with the knowledge that there was another empty space inside of her, reserved for the brother she would never know. Scott Ronson, who had perished in a sailing accident. Scott Ronson who had her blue eyes and Dan's dark hair. It was still almost too strange. But when the mourning parents had described her late brother to her (the photos were all in storage: still too painful to look at), Serena couldn't help but imagine them describing her own child with Dan. It was almost too strange.

At that moment, the door swung open. Nate seemed better for his day on his own. There was a calm certainty about him. Serena had been leaning against the window, but as soon as she saw him, a smile appeared on her lips.

"Hey," he said hesitantly.

"Don't worry," she smiled. "I've reverted to Dr. Jeckyll."

He laughed at that. "That's a relief."

"Nate," Serena said suddenly, her hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans. Nate had turned away for an instant, and when he looked back he was jolted by her appearance. The sun had found its way out from behind the clouds and it pierced through their flimsy curtains. She was not beautiful in that moment; she had become elemental, insubstantial. Something more than beauty, something he wasn't even convinced could exist.

"Yeah?"

"It's time to go home."

"I know."

* * *

Even though Blair had gone to bed hours earlier, sleep had refused to come to her that night. After her parents had settled her into bed – their concerns over her behaviour over the past two years shelved for the time being – Blair had succumbed to another bout of crying. But now, quietness had fallen upon her.

So when the door swung open, she heard it with total clarity.

She would have known that silhouette anywhere, even though the light form the hallway had obscured his shape and blurred her sight. The entire room held it's breath, but Blair knew that there would be no more fighting tonight.

"Blair?" he questioned uncertainly.

"I'm here," she whispered, as he closed the door behind him.

Even though he could tell from her voice that she wasn't going to kick him out, he stood uncertainly at the foot of her bed. Chuck had barely known he was coming to the Waldorf residence. But when he played out in his head the course that sleep and then waking would take that night, being away from her seemed intolerable. He saw himself pouring some coffee, having to talk to Eric about Lily, making a sharp comment to his brother when Eric would inevitably suggest calling Serena. Through the entire reel that he played in his head: the most average, everyday act seemed obscene to him.

Blair would be gone – and it would be his fault. And when Blair was not with him, there was simply less to say. There was less to be excited about. There was even less reason to smile at the waking world.

Blair would be gone. The thought haunted him until he found himself here.

"Dorota let me in," he explained, needlessly.

There was a brief pause, as the former adversaries regarded each other in the darkness of Blair's room. She noticed for the first time that the storm had passed and that the window was no longer being pelted with raindrops. She could feel Chuck playing with the foot of her bed, picking at the doona.

"I didn't get in to Yale," he said suddenly.

"You got into Princeton," Blair said.

Chuck hated to admit that Rufus Humphrey understood women better than Chuck, but he had to admit that Blair's very bearing had softened with that small confession of weakness. Perhaps it wasn't so bad, this vulnerability thing. He took another breath. "I wanted to go to Yale with you," he paused. "You know…I wanted that a lot."

"And you wanted to impress my parents." Her voice was soft with understanding. Damn the Elder Humphrey. This must be how he got women so blatantly out of his league.

"That too," he admitted. Blair could almost see his impish smile. "I tried to bribe Humphrey to give me his place."

"Chuck, are you inane? Dan's your friend – you can't just…"

"I know."

"Come here," she sighed

Chuck hesitated only for a moment, before kicking off his shoes and climbing onto the bed next to her. Blair turned onto her side so that they could see the slight gleam of each other's eyes in the dark room. She could hear his heart beating, and even though they had spoken to each other in anger, Blair felt desire awaken for him. But she wouldn't speak first.

"I'm sorry," he said, finally. "I'm sorry for telling that stupid lie. I just thought…well I guess I didn't think. I was scared of losing you, so I said…you know, what I wanted to be true. Not the smartest thing I've ever done, I admit."

"And I'm sorry for what I said to you tonight."

His body stilled. She knew that she would have to be the first to break their impasse. She reached out a tentative hand to trace his jaw. She could almost feel his eyelids close and she felt the rush of air from his lungs.

"You got into Princeton," she whispered, before kissing him lightly on the lips. The mood between them shifted, as their bodies inched closer to each other. Despite his initial stiffness, soon enough, Chuck was pushing his body against hers, kissing her intensely. But, she pulled back, running her hand through his hair. "Bart would have been proud."

Chuck's breath hitched. The last lie he had told her was right there on her breath, and Chuck knew that not another moment could pass before he told her the truth about Jack and Bart. Perhaps it would be easier with her in his arms. "Blair, there's something else I need to tell you - "

"It can wait," she murmured before nibbling lightly on his bottom lip. "Tonight we celebrate."

"I thought that Princeton was a trade school," he smiled, still feeling the nagging sense that he should tell her the truth.

"Shut up, Bass," she whispered, before pushing him onto his back.

She was right; it could wait.

* * *

Even while she was brimming with happiness, Blair felt the more clinical side of her considering whether these ups and downs were really healthy. With Chuck, everything was magnified. Although she knew her current peacefulness would be short-lived, she couldn't help but rest her cheek against the glass window of the limo (not even worrying whether her foundation would leave an unattractive streak where her cheek law) and grin.

She had not smiled when she awoke in the early hours to find Chuck gone from her bed. She half expected there to be a letter with three lines on it in his unusually neat scrawl. But, she soon heard the telling sound of the faucet running in her bathroom. As so often occurred to her in these moments, she never would have burst in unannounced when she had dated Nate. There was always the danger that she would open the door to find him in a light in which he didn't look quite as perfect. She was afraid that she open the door and find him changed. With Chuck, however, she longed to climb into those dark recesses of his mind and to know him through and through.

When she opened the door, she almost laughed at the sight of him standing at her sink, fastidiously adjusting his hair smoothing some of her moisturiser over his face. He pretended not to notice her, but she could tell from the way his back straightened and his smirk appeared that he knew she was a voyeur to his morning rituals.

Pulling her dressing gown closer around her frame, she entered the room, which was still misty from the shower, and wrapped her arms around him from behind.

"You're up early," she commented.

Her view of him was obscured; she had buried her face in his back. He already had his trousers on, but his had yet to button his shirt. He probably wanted to make sure his cravat sat just right before the shirt was put in place. She loved his vanity; she knew that it was not self-involved. He would devour her with his eyes, and her touch would immediately distract him from his hair.

"I didn't fancy getting discovered by one of your eighteen fathers," he drawled.

"So you're leaving?"

He laughed quietly. "You know I can actually hear you pouting?"

She was feeling playful this morning. When her hand started travelling down the plain of his chest and towards his trousers, he gasped slightly.

"Don't torture me," he moaned, pulling her hand away from him and kissing it once.

"But it's _so_ early," she purred.

He turned around to face her, putting his hands on her face and kissing her so she could taste her mouthwash on his breath. "Ergo it's too early for your parents to castrate me."

"Coward," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

"But I do want to take you out on a date tonight."

She grinned in spite of herself. "A date? My, my. Things must be getting serious."

"I may not be able to give you the perfect future, but I can give you the perfect day," he said solemnly, before kissing her passionately once more on the mouth.

The tone had become serious and his dark eyes were haunted by promises he had broken. She put her hand on his chest. She loved how small and white they looked against Chuck's naturally tanned skin. "I don't need perfect, Chuck."

"But you deserve it. I'll call you in a few hours."

Blair knew, as the limo drove her towards the Palace in the late afternoon – as per his request – that this preoccupation with perfection was a type of mania with Chuck. He felt so wretched about destroying the image she'd formed about their future at Yale, and it compounded the already towering guilt he felt about not being as perfect (in his eyes) as Nate had been. No matter how many times Blair protested, he seemed convinced that he could never be enough for her.

She was also aware that tonight she would find out this big secret – the one he had nearly told her the night before. For some reason, she wasn't nervous about it. She could sense that it had nothing to do with her, really, but everything to do with Chuck. She fancied herself a bit of a Chuck explorer, and so being granted this insight into his past both scared and exhilarated her.

"We've arrived ma'am," the driver said, jolting her from her reverie.

"Thank you," she said in her best courteous but superior voice.

When she stepped from the car, she could sense people looking at her in the low light of the late afternoon. He had claimed her for the afternoon for a surprise in Central Park before he took her out for a night on the town. It had taken her a long time to decide what to wear, although she appreciated Chuck's ability to balance surprises with his knowledge that she would be anxious about appropriate costume. It was just one of the ways he knew her.

She had settled on a black strapless dress with a playful tulle skirt. On top, to make it seem more casual, she threw on a cardigan and let her curls cascade down her back, secured by a sparkly headband.

As much as she tried to assure herself that Blair Waldorf dressed for herself; taking satisfaction from her own sense that she looked good, she knew it was a total lie. She drew energy from those around her: the look of admiration or desire that made her feel strong and powerful. None more so than Chuck.

The limo pulled away, and soon enough, the unforgiving New York traffic swallowed the space. A taxi came to a smooth stop next to her, as she took her first, confident steps to the Palace.

"Blair," a voice shouted from behind her.

Blair froze. It was the last voice she had expected. That was probably surprising, seeing that she was about to step into Serena's house. With a strange feeling of stillness coming over her, Blair turned to face the girl who had deserted her not once, but _twice._

Twice Blair had been left alone by the girl who was meant to be her best friend. The first time had been worse, of course. This time she'd had Chuck and Eric – Vanessa and Dan. This time, she'd tried to be philosophical. She'd been certain that there would be an explanation. But, seeing Serena stand before her, with that unforgivable suitcase, Blair found that she couldn't think of a single reason that would be good enough for her friend to not even tell her she was leaving.

"Blair – It's," Serena started, but then trailed off.

With a polite, if blank, smile, Blair regarded her friend coolly. She wondered how that sentence was going to end? For the first time in a while, Blair felt as if she had the upper hand in conversation with Serena. She was dressed for an evening with her doting boyfriend, while Serena wore jeans and looked like she hadn't slept. She had stayed and looked after Serena's family, while Serena had deserted everyone in her life. Blair felt superior, and she knew that Serena agreed, as her face reddened and she continued stuttering.

"You look pretty," Serena said, finally. "Have you got plans with Chuck?"

"Yes. Plans that I am running late for," she said snootily, before turning away from her friend.

"Is this how it's going to be every time I come back, Blair?" Serena said suddenly, forcing Blair to turn around again. Both she and Serena grimaced at the sound of Blair's gorgeous shoes scraping against the pavement.

"Well it seems like you are keeping your disappearing without a word tradition alive and well, so it does seem fitting," Blair spat.

"You can't avoid me forever – we're going to the same house!"

Blair turned on her heels and began walking towards Central Park, ready to rush across the street in her haste to get away from Serena.

"Blair," Serena shouted. "B – please talk to me!"

By this time, Blair had stepped off the curb and stood with her body wedged between two parked cars. It was neither the time nor the place to have this conversation. But Serena found that she couldn't stand for Blair to walk away without clearing the air with her. She couldn't stand not to have Blair hurling cruel words at her, only to find out about Serena's quest for her half-brother. Serena couldn't wait to see Blair's bitchy expression give way to horror and pity; she held onto the information like a card up her sleeve, depending on it as her way out of Blair's bad graces.

Of course, that all came to naught if her stubborn friend refused to even look at her.

"Blair," she called again.

"What? What can you possibly have to say? What excuse do you have this time, Se_re_na?" Serena hated it when Blair put that emphasis on the middle syllable of her name. It always came out like a curse. Her name tortured in her best friend's mouth, Serena winced.

Of course, Blair thought the wince was a sign that Serena was conceding her point. With a triumphant smile on her face, Blair lifted her chin. "That's what I thought," she spat, before turning around to cross the street.

"BLAIR!" Serena shouted, before a screech tore through the entire street.

Blair didn't have time to register anything except the sound of Serena's voice and the tumbling, spinning sky. So this is the way the world ends, Blair mused before everything went black. With a bang and a yelp, and to the sound of honking horns. [4]

*

[1] The song "Tonight" by Stars was playing on loop during this scene.

[2] With apologies to Melville's _Moby Dick_.

[3] I'm uncertain where this comes from, but my sister once had a t-shirt with the phrase emblazoned across the front. My grandmother loved it.

[4] With apologies to T.S. Eliot.


	15. Chapter 15: Chemistry of a Car Crash

A/N: I know, I know – the old Blair got hit by a car gambit. It's been done to death, but I couldn't help but want to try to resurrect it. Mainly because a little while ago, J.G. Ballard died. He wrote a disturbing dystopian novel called _Crash_. And I wanted to see whether I could make the story line more interesting than usual!

**Chapter Fifteen:**** Chemistry of a Car Crash**

"_Vaughan died yesterday in his last car-crash. During our friendship he had rehearsed his death in many crashes, but this was his only true accident. Driven on a collision course towards the limousine of the film actress, his car jumped the rails of the London Airport flyover and plunged through the roof of a bus filled with airline passengers. The crushed bodies of package tourists, like a hemorrhage of the sun, still lay across the vinyl seats when I pushed my way through the police engineers an hour later. Holding the arm of her chauffeur, the film actress Elizabeth Taylor, with whom Vaughan had dreamed of dying for so many months, stood alone under the revolving ambulance lights. As I knelt over Vaughan's body she placed a gloved hand to her throat._

_Could she see, in Vaughan's posture, the formula of the death which he had devised for her?"_

- J.G. Ballard, _Crash._

To have your life suddenly changed by a crash of warped metal: there was something poetic in that.

To watch your oldest friend spinning like a top in mid-air: there was something horrifying about that.

To find that the world you left behind has imploded: there was something sobering in that.

But to call Chuck Bass and tell him that Blair Waldorf had been hit by a car and taken to the Intensive Care Unit. That was terrifying.

Serena was ashamed to admit that she wasn't even the one to call an ambulance. She stood stock still, not even aware that she was screaming until a bystander grabbed her by the shoulders and urged her to calm down. Another stranger whipped out a mobile phone and called the paramedics. As for the driver, he was slumped in the gutter, his hands running through his hair again and again.

"I didn't even see her. I didn't even see her."

It wasn't until the ambulance arrived – quickly, slowly, Serena had no idea – that she even got close to her friend. Blair was unconscious and the side of her head was bloodied. The rest of her body was cocooned in blankets and strapped to a backboard. The car had a sickening dent in it. For some reason, Serena's eyes were drawn to the warped metal. To think that her tiny friend had made that dent in the bonnet of the sensible family car. Her thoughts were strangely detached as she remembered the physics maxim: _for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction_. It made her wonder what the equal and opposite force on Blair's fragile little body would be.

The car seemed suddenly menacing. The headlights were like eyes. She shuddered, standing there uselessly next to the medical practitioners and their machines. There seemed to be a lot of machines around her today.

It took Serena several minutes to realize that the ambulance driver was gesturing furiously at her. Was she coming or not? Was she family or not? Wordlessly, Serena nodded and found herself lifted into the back of the ambulance. Perhaps things were coming into focus; she felt guilty that she was in the back of the ambulance while Chuck was waiting patiently for Blair to arrive at the Palace so they could start their date.

_Chuck_.

It was only at that point that Serena realized she should probably call her stepbrother.

"It's a tooth," one of the ambulance drivers commented, pulling a molar from the back of Blair's mouth. "She must have clenched her jaw when it hit. Lucky it was form the back."

"God, Paul – in front of the family? Is that really necessary?" The woman leaned forward to touch Serena's hands. Only when the kind woman's hands stilled her own did Serena realize that she was shaking.

Eleanor. She should call Eleanor.

"Is she going to be okay?" Serena croaked.

But no one heard her over the sirens. No one could even see her mouth moving. All eyes were on Blair and the ruby lips that had just surrendered a tooth.

It was only after an hour of waiting that Chuck finally undid his bow tie and permitted himself to scowl into the mirror.

When his phone rang, he would later recall with shame that he had been thinking unkind thoughts towards Blair. He had been angry with her. And so, when his phone went off and Serena said those terrifying words, he managed to convince himself that it was his anger that had caused the accident.

When he saw it was Serena calling, he was half-tempted to ignore her. But, after so many years of friendship, he felt that simply screening her calls would be too callous. "Sis," he drawled. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"It's Blair," Serena said in an eerily calm voice.

"Ah, yes; my girlfriend who seems to be standing me up. Did she decide to join you and Nate on your Great American Road-trip?"

"Where are you?"

"Shouldn't I be the one asking _you _that?"

"Are you sitting down, Chuck?" Serena asked in that strange, metallic voice.

He chuckled, but there was a hint of mania in it. The prickle of fear was spreading. "Serena, tell me what's going on."

"Blair's in the hospital."

That ringing in his ears had always been there, he assured himself. That sick feeling in his stomach was nothing out of the ordinary. And so what if the feeling left his legs until he sank right down to the floor? Blair was in the hospital. That could mean anything. It didn't mean he was panicking.

"Chuck? Are you there?"

"What happened?" he croaked. He was having some trouble drawing breath. It was as if there was someone sitting on his chest.

Serena paused. "There was a car accident."

An alien laugh came from his throat. "If I had a nickel for every time I heard that." Then, just as abruptly, the laughter disappeared. "Is she…was she hurt? Is she…?"

"She's in intensive care," Serena said smoothly. "Come to the Lenox Hill. I don't know anything. But she was…you know. I saw her. I was in the ambulance."

Chuck had located his voice again. "Where did this happen?"

"Outside the Palace. She was here for your date."

"Was she in the limo?"

"Chuck," Serena said gently. "Why don't you come down here and we can talk about everything?"

Chuck had located his anger again. "Why don't you stop treating me like an imbecile and tell me what the fuck happened to my girlfriend? Why you were in the fucking ambulance and I was in the building ten metres away and you didn't think to pick up the mother-fucking…the ph…" Okay. Maybe now he was panicking. He tried to breath slowly through his nose. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Okay Chuck," Serena said quietly.

"I imagined you dying," he admitted in a quiet voice, as a whispered confession to the night.

"Tell me," she breathed.

"I would play it over and over again. I would find you on your deathbed; I would save you. Or I wouldn't. But it was always the same. There was always a whispered confession of regret. It was beautiful. Every time."

Lily closed her eyes on the stark hospital bed. She didn't need to see Rufus' face to know that he would have his eyes closed. They sat in darkness for this, the first conversation since their estrangement months ago.

He had arrived with little fanfare, just a wry smile and that familiar greeting – "hey Lil." And she had been so overcome with shock to find him here, at the scene of her great undoing, that she didn't even think to be embarrassed. It seemed like hours had passed since his arrival; they had started at the beginning, from the moment she left his life and followed its trajectory to her marriage to Bart. For days, her psychiatrist at the Ostroff Centre had urged her to revisit these memories. Until now, she had resisted him at every turn. But with Rufus, it was effortless; they shared a past. It was a shared history they revisited. And she felt more alive than she had for months.

"Did you hate me, yet?"

With eyes still closed, Rufus shook his head. "No. It was love. I imagined you coming unravelled because it was only in those desperate moments that I thought you'd let me in. I killed you in my mind over and over again because I loved you."

She nodded, not caring that he wouldn't see her. "I did the same, in a way. But it was worse; every moment I felt the life we'd made together get bigger and bigger. My body changed because of us – because of what we'd been. And so I erased you. I reviewed every memory. I undid us."

"And did it work?"

"Of course not."

For the first time, it seemed, their eyes opened and they looked at each other. Rufus still didn't quite know what he was doing here. Chuck had thrown in the comment at the last moment: there's something of yours at the Ostroff Centre. But, even then, he knew that it was Lily. He had felt her calling for him, in those quiet exhalations and those whispered dreams. And so he had come here, to the place Chuck had left her, to – what? To claim her for his own? No, not yet. Rather, to pick up where they had left off, and to say those things that they had left unsaid when he had asked her that vicious question: "Was it a boy or a girl?"

Part of him had been spoiling for a fight. And then he had entered this strange room – as luxurious as a hotel, but unmistakably a hospital – and he had found her skin and bone and ivory skin. He hadn't had the heart to challenge her. Her eyes had been closed, and he had felt the faint words more than he had heard them: "I was waiting for you to come."

It was at that point they had closed their eyes and relived those memories.

No doubt, it would have lasted all night. They might have made more progress, if Eric hadn't appeared at the door, his face frozen and his hands full of pastries. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to interrupt," he said, in that gentle manner of his. Rufus smiled in spite of himself. He was a sweet kid.

"It's no interruption," Lily smiled, her closed-eyed confessions a distant memory as she adopted the pose of a mother.

Rufus turned around in his chair and smiled at Eric. He had obviously been on his way to visit his mother – probably empathizing with her sense of exile in this cold room. But, something played across his face; something had changed. And he didn't quite know what to make of it. Lily's eagle eye noticed the slump of his shoulder, the downturn of his mouth.

"Eric, what's wrong?"

He stood in the centre of the room, as if he had just walked onto a stage. He was the messenger tonight. And Rufus was overcome with a thrill of foreboding.

"It's Chuck…I mean, it's Blair, really. Chuck just called me. Blair's been in an accident."

Lily frowned. She seemed more solid with her thoughts on her adopted son. Colour came to her cheeks and her hands clenched. Finally, she was in motion. "Is it serious?"

Eric shrugged, still processing. "I have no idea…Chuck had no idea. I'm just hearing this now." He didn't seem to know what to do with his paper bag; it was smeared with grease. He must have received the phone call on his way to his mother's room. "I'm sorry, Mom. I mean – is it okay to tell you this?"

Now that he had opened his eyes, Rufus saw everything with harsh clarity. He saw the way Lily's eyebrows furrowed as she tried to make sense of herself as an invalid in her son's eyes. He saw the way her mouth sagged as she took the measure of herself: a mess, in a hospital bed. He saw the way her eyes fell on the tag around her wrist. It occurred to her then, the price of falling apart. It seemed to strike her that now in the moment of his greatest need, she wouldn't be able to be there for the step-son she had been so determined to help. She remembered his gentle decisiveness when he booked her into this place, the way his hand cradled her lower back as he pressed her towards admission, while protecting her from the onslaught.

"I need to hear this," she said, finally. "What happened?"

Eric sat on the far corner of her bed, a stricken look on his face. "I don't know…he just said that Serena called him - "

"Serena," Lily breathed.

"She saw it happen – she's back, I think," Eric shrugged. "Chuck couldn't speak, really. I don't think he even knew why he called me. I guess he didn't really have anyone else to call. But he just wanted to tell me that he was going to the hospital – and that he wouldn't be at home later." Eric's throat worked without making a sound. "He said that they wouldn't be at home later."

Lily bowed her head at the implicit rebuke. Chuck had called Eric to tell him that he would not be home when Eric arrived. Lily had disappeared without word, expecting her eighteen-year old stepson to tell Eric. It was then that Lily glanced at Rufus.

He knew that it was a product of his unending devotion to Lily that he would acquiesce. He had a family at home: he had responsibilities outside of his first love. And yet, having her here in the hospital in the wake of a complete undoing, Rufus realized that he could never say no to her. Even if it were for Chuck Bass, he would do her bidding. "Eric, how about I take you to the hospital?"

Eric glanced at his mother. "That would be great, Rufus. Thank you."

When Chuck entered hushed hospital waiting-room, he was fearful of what he would see, and what it would mean to his life. The words that had been used by the doctors and nurses in the snatches of conversation that he had greedily overhead in the waiting room had shifted from his ears and settled in his stomach like lead: _permanent damage, lucky to be alive, may walk again_. And so Chuck found himself filled with fear – a fear that had been compounded by running into Eleanor Waldorf in the hospital hallway, looking ancient and conferring darkly with Harold before dropping Chuck a dark and appraising look.

It was a look that predicted disappointment; it was a look that stayed with him.

There was no categorizing him in this situation. He was the boyfriend; he had no particular rights to be kept up-to-date. And for some reason, the stubborn set of Harold's jaw that made him approach Serena before talking to Blair's parents.

"What's going on?" he hissed at his adoptive sister – who he hadn't seen for over a month. "Where is she?"

Serena wrung her hands, overwrought. "Why don't we just sit down, Chuck?"

"Why don't you stop wasting my time?"

It was a strange feeling. His friendship with Serena had gone through so many stages that he was uncertain as to where they stood. For a moment it seemed as if Serena had become that scared fifteen-year old once more. The one who had knocked on the door of his suite, with trembling hands to tell him that she couldn't quite recall what she had done the previous night. But, that she thought it was bad, and that there might be photographs. If there was one thing Chuck knew the substance of it was a disaster; he was always most in his element when one of his select group was in need. With no thought of judgement, he had stood to the side and she had entered to sit on his couch and sip amber liquid as she cried.

In some ways, he and Serena had been necessary counter-balances to Blair and Nate: the wild and crazy side to the more conservative couple. Blair had often joked that it would have been most convenient if Chuck and Serena could have fallen for each other; the Non-Judging Breakfast Club would have been in perfect alignment. Although, it would never have worked. Serena may have been able to match him drink for drink, but there was something inherently light-hearted about her; she would have bored him, even if he had dreamed about it more than once.

He still remembered the first time he had walked in on Serena at some party or other, when they were only sixteen, to find her performing oral sex on some strange man she had found in a dive bar with Georgina. Although part of him – the sexually precocious side – had been overjoyed to act as voyeur to her performance, the larger part of him was appalled by her wide eyed desperation, by the way that her blue eyes sought the approval of the nameless man she pleasured. It was not judgement of the act itself for Chuck, but rather a sense that she was betraying her breeding: that a Van Der Woodsen should never have looked at that man with such an acute desire for approval. He had felt pity for her. And Chuck hated to feel pity for his equals.

He had always thought that they understood each other, though. It was those moments when an innuendo would pass over Nate or Blair's heads (in the early days) when they would exchange a raised eyebrow. For some reason, they had always been willing to come to each other at their most vulnerable. Both had, after all, been victims of Georgina Sparks' combustive personality. And even since her return, there was a certain pleasure in cohabiting. Even though Serena 2.0 had balked at Chuck's lifestyle (the lifestyle they shared, not long before), she had so often flung herself onto the sofa after a long day to whinge about her life to her old friend, now a part of the family.

But by that time, their friendship was on borrowed time. Because Chuck and Blair had entered the first stages of their ongoing battle, and Serena had swanned into her relationship with Dan.

For the life of him, Chuck couldn't think of a single thing outside of Lily and Eric that would hold him and Serena together. Except, that is, for Blair.

"So what you're saying, basically, is that you know jack shit," he hissed at Serena's pathetic intimations.

"Sit with me, Chuck," she urged, ignoring his tone. "Let's just wait."

He said nothing, but allowed his blonde friend to lead him to those plastic chairs that lined the waiting room of the hospital. He even let Serena rest her hand on his, patting him and murmuring words of comfort. They didn't even come close to penetrating the fog that had come over him since he had heard the news.

His eyes saw nothing except for visions of human disfigurement. It seemed that everywhere he turned there was another example of a human being impacted upon by one of man's own creations. A girl was wheeled in with horrible burns. More than one car accident came through the doors. And there was even an old man who seemed to have mistakenly severed his finger.

Everywhere Chuck looked there was another example of the fragility of the human body. It had been short-sighted of him not to consider that the same soft flesh that enticed him every day could so easily be damaged by the outside world. Perhaps, before he had surrendered himself to these feelings for Blair, he should have insisted that she had been coated in armour. [1] He should have thought of this possibility; that she was too fragile to love. It would take nothing more than a motorcar to pull her away from him.

That was the terrifying thing about loving someone, Chuck realized with dawning horror, pulling his clammy hand from under Serena's. From the moment that you allowed yourself to feel these feelings, you began the countdown to the day when the loved one would no longer be around. In loving Blair, Chuck had opened himself to a new type of suffering.[2]

"It was as if she weighed nothing at all," Serena confided, as Chuck realized that she had been talking this entire time. "She tumbled through the air. It was almost graceful, you know."

It was hard to believe that he had been only metres away and stories above when it happened. He would have liked to have a premonition. At the very least, this event that threatened to erase Blair from the face of the earth could have been foreshadowed in some way. He settled his blank eyes on Serena. It had really been Blair who kept them together. And now here they were: family. Connected in some, unwilling way, forever. He shook his head, mutely, unable to find the words. Serena seemed to realize her mistake in telling him these things. Another soft touch on his arm. "Chuck, she's going to be - "

They might have well have been strangers.

"I swear to god, Serena," he said, steepling his fingers over his nose – as if that simple gesture would mask the sound of his voice, almost tearful. "If you say another word, I am going to throttle you."

She sat back in her chair. Perhaps it was time to call in reinforcements.

Eleanor Waldorf watched the scene unfold as if at a great distance. Even when the paramedic handed her Blair's back molar, for the cosmetic dentist to use as the basis for a denture, she barely reacted. This messy intervention of bent metal and the smell of petrol into her life was simply impossible. Her daughter had not been made for bloody injuries and bones piercing skin.

She could still remember the feeling of knowing that she was pregnant. That brief, private moment that a woman shares with her body, when she finds herself suddenly intruded upon by a miniscule growth without a name. Eleanor had never been one for a grand maternal instinct, but even she had placed a trembling hand on her abdomen and promised that collection of cells that would become her only daughter that she would be made for great things.

Perhaps it was wrong to place so much certainty on the perfection of a child. But until recently, Blair had lived up to the image she had designed for her to the tiniest detail. Theirs was a shared model of perfection. Harold and Eleanor had created Blair, but Blair and Eleanor had created Blair Waldorf. It was more pressure than should be placed on anyone's shoulders, but Blair had carried the burden admirably.

You had once chance in this life. One chance to hold onto the life you want – with both hands. Eleanor had taken to look to realize this. So she promised Blair that she, Eleanor, would prepare her for the reality of life.

But then, something changed. And despite the rational voice in Eleanor's head that told her that accidents happen and that a car accident is no more than a stroke of bad luck in a public place, she sensed that this was the inevitable product of the life that Blair had been leading. She was able to set aside more than Harold was. After their cursory scroll of _Gossip Girl_, Harold had been preoccupied by the tales of Blair's elaborate schemes, of her merciless rule of the girls on the steps. Eleanor had made noises of outrage, but part of her had been more than a little proud.

What concerned her were the personal asides: Serena's desertion and the speculation about some kind of torrid affair with Nathaniel. Eleanor knew that her daughter was far too proud to play second fiddle in a relationship, and yet Blair had done just that for years with Nate. Looking back now, Eleanor could see the error in her own ways: that Blair would have fossilized had she stood at Nate's side for the rest of her life.

But what of those later indiscretions? What of dancing in Chuck's speakeasy, of shedding her Eleanor Waldorf original as if it were a snakeskin? What of Chuck Bass?

She knew that the gossip site gave only part of the story. And she didn't begrudge her daughter an inner life. But, it seemed so reckless, so ill-controlled. Perhaps Blair was less certain of who she was than Eleanor had realized. Years of bulimia should have given it away. But, really it had taken the sudden intervention of a careless driver to make Eleanor see that Blair was stumbling blindly. And that soon enough, Chuck Bass would be a distant memory. His own propensity for irresponsibility would see to that. This hospital was no place for the boy. Waiting by a bedside was the job of a mother, not an eighteen year old reprobate.

And it would destroy Blair, the way this car almost had.

The time had come for action - she and Harold were in lock step on the issue. They knew that they could not stand idly by as their daughter was swept away. Blair needed to get the hell away from Chuck Bass – from all of them – before she lost herself completely.

When Nate arrived at the hospital, he found Chuck sitting on a bright orange chair. The image was so at odds with Nate's usual sense of him that he had to take pause.

Chuck was immaculately dressed, as always, but there was something small and insubstantial about his posture. In this sterile environment, no one could have known that he was _Chuck Bass_. He was no more than a very lonely, very scared boy.

It was a relief, somehow, to see that he hadn't deigned to drink coffee out of one of the little plastic cups that they served in the cafeteria; Nate wasn't certain he could have withstood her impression of him shattering so completely. As it stood, he couldn't shake the feeling that Chuck was destined for this: that he would always exist in a type of halfway house between living and dying, waiting for the next catastrophe.

For his part, Chuck barely reacted when he saw Nate in person for the first time in so long. His mind was only upon Blair. She was all he could think about. And neither family, nor friends, nor any human concerns could touch him on those uncomfortable seats with the sound of a child wailing in the distance and a low murmur of conversation at the nurse's station.

"So, you're back," he said stiffly to Nate.

"Yeah, man. I'm sorry I couldn't come back sooner…if I'd known…"

"What?" Chuck said, staring straight ahead. "If you'd known people here might need you then you would have stayed?"

"I would have," Nate said quietly, staring at Chuck's blank face and idle hands. It seemed that the stress of the day had sharpened Chuck's cruellest side to a fine point. Serena reappeared, hovering awkwardly to the right of Nate. It had only been a few hours, but she was uncertain how to greet him. It was not just the hospital environment. It was the entire city. And this close to Chuck's obvious pain, Serena felt strange about her relationship with Nate. It seemed a crass, childish thing in comparison to the torturous devotion Chuck clearly felt for Serena's best friend.

"But in order to realize that you would have had to spend more than five seconds not thinking about yourself," Chuck said with a strange smile on his face.

"Chuck - "

But Chuck wasn't having any of it. "Come on Archibald. Even you don't control the traffic."

"It's my fault," Serena said suddenly. She still spoke in that matter-of-fact voice that she'd developed during her phone calls to Blair's parents and Chuck. "She was running from me. It was my fault."

Chuck had that strange smile on his face again – halfway between a grimace and a baring of teeth. Nate shivered slightly. "You're right," Chuck spat, standing up. "It _was_ your fault."

The full blast of his vitriol made Serena recoil. She deflated as if he had pushed her down, as if he had laid a hand on her. But of course, he hadn't. It took no more than the full force of his voice to make her shrink. Nate frowned and opened his mouth to defend her, but Serena mutely shook her head. Before he'd even had the opportunity to formulate a response, Chuck ducked his head, swallowing twice.

"I apologise, Serena," he said seriously. "It's not your fault. If anything, it's my fault for making her come to the Palace to meet me."

Nate smiled coyly at his friend, with the open-faced simplicity that only Nate could muster. "Come on, Chuck. Even you don't control the traffic."

Something in Chuck seemed to surrender to that. He knew that this vigil would not end, until it – well, ended. So he sat down, musing that this was what staying put looked like. He had, somewhere along the way, become someone who didn't run away. And it seemed that for the time being, Serena and Nate would be staying put as well.

"Then I guess we wait it out," Nate said, as Serena nodded fervently.

"If you must," Chuck murmured. Regardless what happened around him, there was no way he could leave – a fact that warmed him and settled his stomach. For once he didn't want to run; he couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to.

Unfortunately that was also true of visiting Blair. Eleanor was guarding her daughter's privacy like a lioness at the entrance to her den, and none of the doctors or nurses who shot him sympathetic or suspicious looks would tell him anything about the condition of his girlfriend.

"It's just family right now, sir. Why don't you have some coffee and sit down?"

"Why don't you forcibly insert that coffee into your - " But Serena had dragged him away before he could complete that thought.

And so he'd contented himself with pacing around the waiting room, wearing a thin line in the carpet, and kicking fixed objects at various intervals. At one point, he'd heard two nurses muttering about compound fractures, but other than that, he was in a void of information. A vacuum of information. A black hole of information.

Hours passed. Serena disappeared to the vending machine to get some crisps and chocolate and to approach Blair's family to pester them about her condition. None of them would so much as look at Chuck and he couldn't find the energy to care.

"What was the surprise?"

Chuck looked up to find Serena brandishing a packet of chips in his direction. He crinkled his nose and shook his head. "What surprise?"

"The big date," Serena explained, sipping her soda. "Blair looked excited."

Chuck sighed, steepling his fingers over his nose. He closed his eyes against the harsh light of the waiting room. He didn't like the artificiality of the light. He didn't like associating anything in this place with Blair. "A few years ago there was a carnival in Central Park and she and I rode on this rickety old Ferris wheel. It was…" Chuck glanced at Nate, who had perked up to listen. "Well, I guess it doesn't really matter now. But it was the first time I wanted to kiss her."

Serena frowned. "So wait, what was the surprise?"

Chuck shrugged, stretching his legs straight out before him. "I had them set up a Ferris wheel just like it in Central Park. I wanted to…do it right this time."

"Oh," Serena said simply, before sitting down beside him. She would have liked to put her arm around her adoptive brother. But something stayed her hand. She knew that he would stiffen and that his obvious mortification at the physical contact would only double when he realized that she must have noticed his reaction. So instead, she petted his hand. "You've been looking after her, haven't you?"

Chuck settled a very pointed look on Serena's face. After a polite period of time had elapsed, Chuck gently lifted her hand off of his. "She looked after me," he said simply. "And she looked after Lily. Until no one could look after Lily."

"What does that mean?"

He had thought there might be some victory in it - in telling Serena what had come from her desertion. Often he had imagined describing to his earthy, unreliable friend the way her mother had turned into air before his eyes. But now that the time had come to tell her, the look of her face - set in a grim line – brought him no pleasure. Instead, it dawned on him the wretched impact that human beings have on each other and the doomed attempts we make to hold each other together.

Soon after, Serena disappeared to visit her mother. It seemed that everyone had places to go, had lives to attend to. Except for Blair's parents. And except for Chuck. Even though they never spoke to each other, it seemed as if there was a cold war brewing. A long-distance blinking contest. So far, Chuck had yet to budge.

And Nate was still with him, even when Eric and Rufus Humphrey arrived.

"How's he doing?" Rufus asked in a hushed voice as Eric sat quietly next to his brother. From across the room, Rufus and Nate watched as Eric shoved his hands in his pockets and stood awkwardly in front of Chuck. Nate couldn't make out what they said to each other, but within a few moments, Eric had taken the seat next to Chuck and Chuck – surely Nate's eyes were deceiving him – had put a comforting hand on Eric's shoulder.

"He's a very carefully controlled mess," Nate shrugged. "Her parents won't tell us anything. And I think at any second he might spontaneously combust and destroy us all."

"Right," Rufus said simply.

Nate eyed Dan's father. He was wearing his signature plaid shirt with a necklace that must have been purchased at a flea market in the nineties. "Maybe you should talk to them…you know…parent to parent."

Although Rufus knew what Nate meant, it was impossible not to draw the inference that Rufus would be acting as a quasi-parent for Chuck. That was, after all, why Lily had sent him here. Despite Chuck and his tentative accord after their drinking session a few days before, Rufus noted that Chuck, although offering the merest nod possible, was basically ignoring him. Rufus tried to remind himself that Chuck Bass was an eighteen-year old kid, scared shitless at the possibility that his girlfriend might be critically injured. But it was impossible; the Chuck Bass that Rufus saw was not one who needed a spokesperson. By the looks of it, all Chuck needed was a drink.

"Maybe," Rufus said doubtfully.

It was then that Rufus noticed where Chuck's eagle eye was looking. Eleanor Waldorf, along with a man that Rufus assumed was Mr. Waldorf, appeared to be in deep conference with one of Blair's doctors. The look on Chuck's face was enough to steel Rufus' resolve. But he knew that taking on the pose of father-figure would not be well-received by Chuck. It would be important for Chuck to feel as if he were part of a plot of some sort. It would be important for him to feel as if he and Rufus were pulling the wool over people's eyes. That was the only way he would be able to stomach Rufus Humphrey's help.

"Have they told you anything?" Eric was asking as Nate and Rufus sidled up to them.

"Of course not," Chuck muttered darkly. "How can they show their disapproval of my very presence if they actually talk to me?"

"Maybe I should talk to them," Rufus suggested casually.

Perhaps Rufus had imagined their tacit accord; there was no hint of it in Chuck's eyes when he cast a disdainful eye over Rufus' form, starting from his ratty trainers and running over the plane of his low-slung jeans. Under his judgemental gaze, Rufus felt suddenly foolish. As if he were wearing something unsightly. God he hated this kid sometimes. It took all of Rufus' considerable patience not to attempt to strangle him with his own cravat.

"What good would _your_ talking to them do?" Chuck asked, lifting a scathing eyebrow.

Swallowing the prickle of annoyance, Rufus smirked at the boy. "Well they might be more forthcoming with another parent. Someone without the connexion to you, but near enough to have an interest?"

Chuck leant forward slightly. "You mean play the Lily angle?"

"It might work, man," Nate contributed. "Eleanor and Lily have been friends since Blair and Serena were…I dunno…"

"Zygotes," Eric contributed.

"Exactly," Nate said, making a mental note to look up the word _zygote_ at some point. "It'll work."

"All right," Chuck shrugged, gesturing dismissively, belying the look of intensity in his eyes. "Go do it, then."

It was a stiffly formal dismissal, and Rufus hated himself for slinking away on the order of Bart Bass's son. What on earth was he doing here? Helping the pampered offspring of the man he had been vying with for Lily's affections. Helping the son of the man that Rufus almost hated – a man that Rufus was sometimes glad had died in a fiery car crash. Perhaps that was why he was here. He felt guilty hating a dead man. He felt guilty that Chuck's loss had been his gain, at least for a while. And so he looked for redemption at the feet of a sociopathic teenager with a penchant for Italian loafers.

Uncertain of how to get Eleanor's attention, Rufus tapped her awkwardly on the back. He could almost hear Chuck groan at his lameness from over here. Luckily, although Eleanor seemed surprised by Rufus' presence, there was no outward antagonism.

"Um, hi. Rufus Humphrey – we met at…"

"I know who you are, Rufus," Eleanor rolled her eyes. "You're Lily's ex-lover and your son dated Serena Van Der Woodsen. I think it's time to drop the outsider act at some point."

Now he remembered why he had quite liked Eleanor. She didn't bullshit. She did, however, look far older than he remembered. Although he supposed that being at a hospital while your only child was being treated would do that to you. On the other side of the room, far from the teen drama of his son's friends, Rufus remembered that he was an adult, and that this was a parent's worst nightmare. The awkwardness that always overcame him when Chuck was near receded.

"I don't think that we've been introduced," Harold said, tiredly. "Harold Waldorf."

"Of course," Rufus said, clutching the man's hand. "I'm sorry about the circumstances. It's unimaginable to me."

Harold smiled slightly, acknowledging Rufus' sincerity. He seemed to be cut from a different mould to most parents on the Upper East Side. Harold warmed to him immediately, but was politely confused as to what he was doing here. Rufus seemed to sense his confusion.

"I was with Lily when Eric told us what happened," he explained. "Lily is…indisposed at the moment…" Eleanor and Harold exchanged a look at that. _Indisposed_ was Upper East Side code for a stint in rehab or a plastic surgery muck-up. "But she was worried about…Blair…and wanted me to check in."

Eleanor's face crumpled slightly. "That's very kind of her," she said softly. It was as if all mothers were joined by a common empathy for each other. Even tough-as-nuts Eleanor Waldorf was not immune.

"I brought Eric," Rufus explained.

That had been an error; the moment he said Eric's name, Eleanor and Harold searched the room for him. And at the very instant they turned around, Chuck was on the edge of his seat, staring at them intently. As inconvenient as it was at this moment, Rufus had to hand it to the kid – he had an imposing stare. Even as he realized that he was giving the game away – if it _was_ a game, at this point – it was impossible to hide how intensely focused he was on the conversation between three parents. He leaned back in his chair, as an admirable facsimile of normal. But, it was too late. Eleanor and Harold both stiffened, with calculated expressions on their faces.

"And thought you'd check in on Lily's step-son, Chuck," Harold said shrewdly.

"Adopted son," Rufus corrected him.

Eleanor made a slight gesture of dismissal, which annoyed Rufus, for some reason. It was as if the woman was brushing away any suggestion that someone might step up to claim the younger Bass. It was the way someone may react to a technicality, to the fine print. Eleanor clearly thought little of the ties that Chuck had forged with the Van Der Woodsens. Probably because that would have granted the boy she was determined to dislike some form of legitimacy. It was easier to dislike a wraith, with no ties. It was easier to cast him aside. Perhaps Rufus hadn't liked Eleanor as much as he recalled.

"I'm surprised he's even here," Eleanor said darkly. "I thought he'd skip out the second he could."

"You must be pleasantly surprised then," Rufus said sarcastically. "It would mean a lot to Blair that he was waiting for her."

"I think it would mean a lot more to Blair's well-being if he stayed the hell away from her," Harold muttered.

Rufus frowned. "We can't control who our children date, Harold. The best we can hope for is that they make good decisions, or at least that they come to us when they realize that they made the wrong ones."

"Do you really think it's appropriate to lecture me on fatherhood when my only daughter is lying in an operating theatre with a compound fracture and a collapsed lung?" Harold asked incredulously.

There was no denying it. Who was Rufus in this situation? What would Rufus have even done if it were Jenny lying hospital with _Chuck Bass_ waiting for her? He had no right to be here. Lily had been asking too much of him, like she always did. He was embarrassed by everything he'd said, by his attempted collusion with Chuck.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I don't even know what I'm doing here," Rufus sighed. "I hope that Blair's okay."

"Thank you," Eleanor said softly.

It was only when he turned back to Chuck, now standing at the window, that the situation became clear to him. He turned to face Blair's parents. "He's just a kid, you know. A very rich, very spoilt, and completely neglected kid. There's no one to fight for him. And even though he's no one to me, really, I know that if it were my son, I'd ask you to remember how young he is before you give him an adult's punishment."

With that, he crossed once more from the land of adults to the land of children. As always, surprised by how little difference there was between the two.

Nate couldn't remember ever having been this tired. It was as if his limbs had been replaced by weights. It was probably the combination of the end of his cross-country journey with Serena and the fact he had spent the last eight hours sitting on a hard plastic seat. Although he would have liked nothing more than to crawl into bed and let his tired muscles relax, he felt honour-bound not to give into tiredness.

Probably because of the uncomfortable way he and Chuck were acting around each other, Nate found himself passing the time by thinking about the way things had once been and trying to isolate the moment when everything had gone to hell.

It was impossible really. Their friendship group had drifted away imperceptibly. The first wedge was obviously Georgina, who had been an unwelcome addition. She made Chuck uncomfortable because she was more than a match for him, and because she reminded him of the first time he had experienced sex. She would always have the secret knowledge of Chuck as a confused, awkward little boy fumbling around for his own belt buckle. Blair was naturally antagonistic; Georgina's explicit stories served only to make Blair seem tamer. Acting as a natural counter-balance to Georgina and Serena's wildness, Blair had been forced to adopt the pose of killjoy. Which contrary to popular notion, she didn't relish. She liked to be in control, and Georgina liked to be wildly out of control. They were never going to get on.

Nate had just been uncomfortable because she seemed like someone who would eat her pets.

They might have weathered Georgina. They had all known each other for too long to be blindsided by Georgina's wild streak. And although Serena had passed rapidly from Party Girl to Destined-For-Prison Girl under Georgina's tutelage, it was hardly far enough from her previous incarnation for Georgie to be entirely to blame. Serena had always been a coquettish nymphette [3], even though with Georgie she had become something more fascinating: she had become _dangerous_.

These musing got him nowhere. But they did make him ponder the ever-fascinating topic of Chuck and Blair. Nate remembered the very moment he had realized that everything was changing. Surprisingly, it wasn't until after Serena had left that he realized it, because immediately after his night with Serena, he had been in the midst of a heavy-limbed awareness of his own sexuality, which he couldn't acknowledge in front of him virginal girlfriend.

It was a warm morning when Chuck and Nate sat under the shade of a yellow-leaved tree, enjoying a comfortable silence and a recess joint.

"Your girlfriend looks to be in high dudgeon," Chuck commented with an almost fond note in his voice, as Blair stormed down the stairs in her blindingly white blouse. She scanned the courtyard for a moment before seeing them in their private spot. Chuck flicked the joint at the sandstone tiles, before lifting himself onto the wooden table, leaving Nate on the bench with a space next to him for Blair. For some reason, the gesture annoyed Nate. It always irritated him when Chuck showed the initiative to set up a scene _just so_ for Blair. He had a grasp of nuance that Nate could never emulate. And for some reason, the fact Blair never seemed to notice irritated him as well. It was as if they were in a play – and that Chuck and Blair had already scrutinised the script, leaving Nate alone to stumble around the stage, confused.

It had just been so much easier when Serena was here. She always inhabited the moment, without worrying about the stagecraft.

"Dude, sometimes I think you spend half your time learning new words just to confuse me," Nate complained, blinking away the redness of his eyes.

Blair threw herself into the space that Chuck had provided for her, crossing her arms and bouncing her foot, not even bothering to acknowledge her boyfriend in any way before turning to Chuck. "Kate Miles has to be stopped," she announced dramatically.

"And let me guess: we are the only ones who can do it," Chuck smirked.

"Oh god," Nate groaned, his head still fuzzy from the pot. "Not this again."

"It's for the public good," Blair protested.

Chuck couldn't even hide his schadenfreude. "What did the faithless wench do to incur your wrath?"

As Blair got started on her rant – something about Kate listing Yale as her first preference for college, Nate subconsciously scooted away, giving himself a better view of the scene that Chuck had designed. Even though it may have seemed like deference to move a level above and to leave Nate and Blair next to each other, it had actually been a carefully construed method to capture the power. When Blair was annoyed, she needed to talk things out, and Chuck always enjoyed her rants. Blair would, without fail, address her ire to the most willing member of the audience, which was invariably Chuck. Now, in order to talk, she would have to stare up at him, to angle herself away from Nate.

_Smug bastard_, Nate thought.

Something strange happened to Nate's perception as they discussed methods to bring her down. Maybe it was the lingering effects of getting baked in the warm sun, or maybe it was the lingering effects of his first sexual experience, but there seemed to be something almost obscene about Blair and Chuck's interaction.

In retrospect, it was nothing more than the tiniest touch. They were so deeply immersed in their conversation, smiling vindictively at the sharp point of their cruelty, that for a moment, Blair lightly touched Chuck's shin.

It was a light tap, to underline point or to tease, but in Nate's mind it was in slow motion, loaded with significance. How desperately he wished that there were some substance to his sudden coil of jealousy. Not because he wouldn't have cared – he was a still a man, and one who would have been murderously jealous if Blair and Chuck had been the ones who had betrayed him, instead of him and Serena betraying Blair.

It was because if it had been Blair who had been in the wrong, it would have been so easy for Nate to be righteous. Whereas now, righteousness was impossible for Nate.

For a moment, he entertained the notion of that light touch portending something more sinister. He imagined Blair and Chuck on a bar stool at the Shepherd wedding. Of course, no matter how strong the impression was in his mind, the very notion was ludicrous. Even after he and Blair had broken up, he had been utterly blindsided by Blair and Chuck's actual affair. But there on the bench that morning, he was unfairly furious at them, and determined to ruin their morning.

"So basically," Nate said scathingly. "You guys think that just because Kate wants to go to a good college, she deserves to be framed for cheating on her National Merit Scholar exam or embroiled in a scandal about the misappropriation of _Habitat for Humanity _funds?"

It was almost comical, how slowly Chuck and Blair turned their heads to him. They had almost forgotten that he was there. Although Chuck was utterly unabashed by Nate's furious question, actually shrugging nonchalantly, Blair was an entirely different story. She hated to be demeaned in Nate's eyes. So eternally preoccupied with furthering her own agenda, she had never paused to challenge the assumption that she deserved her glory merely because she was the most determined to attain it. The horrible, frozen look on her face when she realized that Nate's tone was so derisive came over her not because she thought she was in the wrong, but because she had been careless. She had forgotten to moderate herself for Nate's benefit. She had forgotten to be ashamed of herself for show.

With the grim satisfaction of a law-maker, Nate stood up. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

Blair opened her mouth but seemed at a loss for something to say. Almost in spite of herself, she edged away from Chuck, as if trying to distance herself.

"No one knows," Chuck said cockily. "I'm a puzzle."

"I'll see you guys later – after you've finished attaching laser beams to the sharks in your evil lair."

Chuck cocked his head to the side. "Was that meant to be a butchered _Austin Powers_ reference?"

Nate didn't answer, just walked away. Although Blair had found him at lunch time, full of affected contrition and fictional justifications, he knew that when the afternoon came, she would call Chuck and they would commence the preparations for Kate Miles' downfall. Soon enough, rumours surfaced about the charity that Kate was chairwoman of – something about girls being sold into white slavery. After an appropriate period of time had passed, another rumour surfaced about private "study" sessions with the new Spanish teacher, who happened to be a rather young and attractive man named Mr. Gomez.

By the end of the school year, she would have been lucky to get into New Haven Technical College.

And although stories grew of a quiet alliance between Blair and Chuck, and although things seemed to magically align for them against their enemies, they never mentioned anything explicitly to Nate. Chuck would often scheme freelance for his best friend on the rare occasion that Nate got himself into the type of trouble that can't be remedied by puppy-dog eyes from under man-bangs, but Blair never again mentioned plotting to him during the course of their relationship.

His moral outrage had driven them underground, he now realized. He had given them something to hide. He had forced them to create a secret world, hidden from the third member of their trio. That was the only conclusion he could draw from his memories of the time.

Strangely, Serena seemed to be thinking along the same lines. She had returned from her mother's hospital room with a change of clothes for Chuck and sweats for Nate (he had often left a set of running clothes at Chuck's house for those hangover mornings when his father would insist that Nate meet him). Even though she brought food with her – enough for an army of people – no one seemed to be eating much. She had managed to coerce Chuck into nibbling on the edge of a sandwich. Really, the only one who was willing to really enjoy the array of food she had picked up was Eric. Nate watched him incredulously as he shovelled potato salad and turkey sandwiches into his mouth. Serena rolled her eyes.

"What?" Eric asked, his cheeks full of food.

"Do you want to maybe take a breath, or like, swallow?"

Eric shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "I'm a stress eater."

Even Chuck had laughed at his expression. It was a fleeting moment of light-heartedness, before Chuck returned to the dark window in the waiting room. Eric had, at Chuck's urging, returned home. Chuck rarely acknowledged Serena and Nate, leaving them to their vigil on the plastic seats, his mind too exhausted and terrified to try to engage his friends in conversation.

When Serena finally spoke, she seemed to be inordinately fascinated with her hands folded in her lap. "You know, I have been trying to remember out the moment everything got messed up. I mean everything was so good between the four of us, you know?"

"Serena - " Nate tried to interrupt.

But her eyes were hard with determination. "And I figured it out. The exact moment everything changed. It was you and I, in the bar at Elizabeth Shepherd's wedding. We didn't know it yet, but that was the end of something."

Nate couldn't speak; he knew that she was right. But he gave her a crooked smile. "I think you may be overestimating the amazing power of our sex life."

Serena shook her head, unable to shake the images of Blair knocked into the air like she weighed nothing at all. That scene again from the sky; that scene again from the ground; that scene again and again from any angle she could think of. The only reprieve she had was when she looked at Chuck's ashen face, his eyes closed as he leant against the wall or his mouth curving downward when he paced around the room. "No. It was us. Even though not everything that happened afterwards was our fault that first betrayal was us – was me, really."

"I vaguely remember being there too," Nate retorted, irritated at the way she refused to acknowledge his role in their first time together. He hated the way she made it sound like she had somehow tricked him. Too much his life came down to being pulled to and fro by his shrewd best friend and his iron-willed ex-girlfriend. That night with Serena had felt like something he could claim entirely for himself. It was the small space in his mind that could not be trespassed upon by the more forceful people in his life.

Her eyes were so serious. "I was the one strutting on top of that bar. I was the one who wanted to drink more. I just wanted…you know, I wanted to see myself reflected in your eyes, I guess. You always saw the best in me – you always made me feel so special. So many days I'd wake up not even remembering who I'd been with the night before, after nights out with Georgie. But when you'd look at me when were out at night sometimes…I mean I don't know what you were thinking…"

"I was thinking about how being near you was like being really close to…god I don't know. A star, or something," he shrugged.

She snorted, her hand nervously brushing against his arm. "That's so cheesy."

"I thought it was poetic."

They fell into a brief silence, feeling strange about having this conversation in such a sterile and mundane environment. Having spent so much time watching _ER_, Nate had always assumed that a hospital was a seething mass of drama and intrigue. But the actual daily workings seemed so everyday, so unremarkable, that it was almost unnatural.

Somehow, Serena's words would return to his mind and overthrow him. Could it really be that every catastrophe of the past few years could be traced back to the delirium of that night? Even though he had snorted at the thought, he had to admit that it made sense. After that day, memories of her would come to him and he pulled away from his best friend, from his girlfriend, guilty about his actions but somehow unable to regret them. At any moment, the memory would mean something different to him, he would be elated or embarrassed, but he could not look away from it. The ghost of her lured him back, and promised one day to return to him.

And maybe things would have been better if, that quiet afternoon, he had taken Blair's hand, and placed it in Chuck's. For safe-keeping.

When Chuck finally unravelled, it happened quickly. Even he couldn't be entirely sure what had set him off: one moment he was staring out the window and the next he was shaking. It was probably because he had seen Cyrus and Eleanor leave the hospital – possibly for a few moments of rest, and he found himself inordinately furious. It seemed that while he was required to stand here, alone, without any information, they could flounce in and out – secure in the knowledge that they wouldn't lose their place, that no one would question their commitment to Blair if they left the building. Even though Chuck knew that he would have gone mad being too far away from Blair, he hated to be cornered.

It was unjust, really. Unjust to act like Blair wouldn't have wanted him here. Spinning around on his heel, he turned around to his tired, dozing friends, wracking his hands through his hair in frustration. It was then that they saw his bloodshot eyes, the over-bright beginning of tears of frustration, and knew that if he were not let into that room soon, he would kill them all.

"That's it. I'm going in."

"Chuck," Serena said in the quiet voice she had developed during their tenure in this sterile room. "Just wait for the doctor. When they can tell us something, they'll tell us."

"A resounding syllogism, Serena. But I've had e-_fucking_-nough of waiting. Waiting for them to tell me if Blair's…what's happening…if she's going to be…" But he couldn't finish his sentence. Because at that moment, he realized that he was for once completely helpless. And overwhelmed by worry and incapable of remedying the situation, Chuck found tears impossible to fight.

So, standing in the middle of the room, not caring that he was in public, or that his friends were watching, Chuck started crying, brushing at his eyes angrily.

And that was more than Nate could bear, even in his sleep-deprived state. With a resolute nod, Nate got to his feet, touched Chuck's shoulder, and said: "You want to go in. You go in."

With that, he walked up to the night doctor in charge of emergency, tapped him on the shoulder, and punched him square in the face.

In the ensuing chaos, as the man's clipboard went flying, nurses screamed and hit the walls, and anyone with a Y-chromosome leapt into the fray, Chuck found his moment to slip into the corridor that would lead to Blair's room, making a mental note to buy Nate a boat at some point in the near future.

The corridor was hushed and dark compared to the sterile light outside, and as he didn't know her room number, but only the general direction of her room, he peeked in each window. It seemed that each door led to a new scene of pointless, vicious mutilation. It took a long time to find the right place, guided only by the information that Rufus had been able to glean and which he had been able to collect from more sympathetic nurses.

Finally, he found her. He knew he would. Even though she looked so different to the Blair he knew, through that small window, with the criss-crossed wire struck through it, he would have recognised her anywhere. But now that he had found her room – mercifully unguarded by Harold – he wasn't sure what to do.

He felt suddenly as if he were knocking on Bart Bass's study, knowing that he was about to be scolded by the man for some indiscretion or other. It was a similar feeling of grim determination to just get it over with that filled Chuck at the door. So, squaring his shoulders, he pushed the swinging door open.

She was unconscious when he entered - he saw that right away, but otherwise the scene came to him in fragments. First he saw her leg, apparently all but crushed on impact, so that the bone had protruded at various points through the skin. The white plaster was slightly stained with blood, and elevated on the bed, exposed from beneath the white hospital sheet. His eyes fell to her chest and her arms, and he took in the grazes and tubes that connected her to the beeping machines around her. It was only then that he saw the long scratch on her face and the bruises around her eyes.

And she was still beautiful to him. Beautiful, in this harsh light; beautiful, almost unrecognisable. Beautiful to him for no other reason than her chest still rose and fall to show that she was breathing.

Still uncertain, still nervous, Chuck slipped off his shoes and sat in the cushioned chair next to her bed, drawing his knees to his chin. Finally close enough to touch her, he didn't want to – didn't want to disturb her, didn't want to hurt her. It was comfort enough to see her, and to know that her breath still entered and left her lungs. So close, and yet still so desperately far away.

Before long, he fell asleep to find himself immersed in those soft dreams that Blair always made for him.

"That was the stupidest thing you've ever done," Serena scolded as she pressed ice to his bleeding skull. It had taken some quick talking on Serena's behalf to ensure that the police hadn't been called after Nate jumped that poor doctor. They had found out afterwards that it was the poor guys first day. She had chalked up the entire incident to stress, and the nice resident had demurred the nurses' offers to call the police. Instead, he had ordered them to go and get some rest. They weren't to come back until Nate was more in control of his faculties.

He had even given them ice for Nate's nose, and Serena was surprised he hadn't given them lollipops.

"Come on," Nate grinned, sitting next to her on the dirty curb. "That was not even close to the stupidest thing."

She bit the inside of her mouth, trying to keep from smiling. "It was at least top ten."

Nate looked down. "If it gave Chuck even a minute with her, it was worth it."

Since returning to New York, Serena had found it difficult to remember the things she had always loved about Nate – even when they were no more than friends. And yet now that Nate had set himself the task of mending fences with Chuck, she could see it gleaming through his eyes. Despite his mistakes, Nate was a thoroughly decent guy. Surprising herself, she kissed him on the lips. "You're a good guy, Nate," she said quietly.

He stared at her – the tired half-smile and the bloodshot blue eyes. There hadn't been a moment to pause and think about what they were doing; he had been convinced that the instant they arrived in New York she would run back to Dan. But, it had been a long day and part of a night of thinking about the past. Those feelings were too close to the surface. But, Nate knew that it was somehow unreal, even in the gritty streets of New York. He knew that if their dalliance were to continue in New York, it would become a bigger thing – it would have consequences. He had to give her an out.

"You should go back inside," he said hesitantly, leaning his forehead against hers.

"I think my head will explode if I go back in there," she admitted, exhaling heavily.

Peeking at her from, Nate noticed that her hand was gently stroking his leg as her other hand pressed against his swollen nose. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she nodded, holding his eyes.

"You want to get out of here?"

It was the thinnest line between doing and not-doing. With a thoughtful expression on her face, Serena leant forward and kissed him again, before leaning in to whisper in his ear.

"That sounds good," she said quietly. "That sounds really good."

Nate had a brief moment of lucidity before they stumbled into the cab. In a brief, flickering moment, Nate knew a great many things. He knew from Chuck's stricken face as he sobbed over Blair, that no matter how close he and Serena stood to Chuck and Blair, they would never be able to exactly model the love that their best friends had for each other. For a moment, Nate imagined himself taking Serena by the shoulders and urging her not to tempt him, not to repeat the same mistakes that had caused them all so much pain.

But, before he could form the words, the sight and sound and feel of her was too much for him. And the moment of lucidity gave way to an attraction he had felt since he was young. One that never dimmed, no matter how close he came to being wise.

[1] I am currently toying with an unrelated story, which would pick up from when Chuck and Blair were supposed to go to Tuscany. So I have been watching Season One in preparation. As a result I haven't been able to stop listening to "Three Wishes" by the Pierces. It is the perfect Chuck/Blair song, really.

[2] Shameless plug: see my new one-shot, "Blair", for an insight into Chuck after the unthinkable has happened.

[3] "Nymphette" is a reference to Nabokov's classic _Lolita_. Not for the faint-hearted or under-aged, but an interesting read.

A/N: Thanks for bearing with me. This chapter was going to be one, long, uber-chapter. But I have since decided to divide it into two. Next chapter is half-done and will be up in the next few days. We're coming to the end of the story – and there are a few things that need to be set up for the sequel: _Lightness and Weight_. Next chapter: a fight, doing the dishes, and possibly prom.


	16. Chapter 16: I Crave Your Mouth

**Chapter Sixteen: I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair**

_Don't go far off, not even for a day_

_Don't go far off, not even for a day, because –_

_because – I don't know how to say it: a day is long_

_and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station_

_when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep._

_Don't leave me, even for an hour, because_

_then the little drops of anguish will all run together,_

_the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift_

_into me, choking my lost heart._

_Oh may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;_

_may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance._

_Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,_

_because in that moment you'll have gone so far_

_I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking, _

_Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?_

**Pablo Neruda, "Don't Go Far Off, Not Even For A Day"**

**Twenty-Four Hours Later**

The hall stretched long and gruesome before him as he staggered. He was certain that once he had been able to form coherent thoughts, but now it was as if his brain had been infused with a static that wouldn't cease. In this moment of great stress, it seemed that Chuck's brain had reverted to its simplest form: _I am Chuck Bass_, he thought – as reminder, as epithet. But even as he thought the words, the white noise distorted them. _I am. Am Chuck. Am I Bass. _Until the meaning was lost. The hallway stretched longer and he had to stop walking, to lean on the wall for support

"Chuck," Serena said gently.

"Just don't…give me one second…just don't _talk_ to me for one fucking second," Chuck said, wheezing.

"Are you okay, man?" Nate asked, appearing at Chuck's other side.

Wordlessly, he slid down the wall, landing on the ground without thought of his expensive, tailored pants. He noticed Nate and Serena exchanging irritatingly private looks. They were worried about him, he realized with little emotion. Somewhere in his peripheral vision, he noticed that Dan, Vanessa and Eric were hovering. Undoubtedly, Rufus-bloody-Humphrey was nearby. It was a reunion special, and all grudges were set aside. Set aside in this grey hall, with the linoleum floor that looked like mottled flesh.

That strange metallic laugh that had come upon him on the phone with Serena bubbled up in his throat once more. More of those annoying glances. Didn't they see that the world was coming to an end? What was the point of worried glances and wrinkled foreheads? This day would be the death of them.

Chuck closed his eyes and tried to surrender himself to that white noise as Serena babbled on in that pathetic attempt of a soothing voice, which sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Frantically trying to block her out, he pressed down on the top of his skull. As her voice droned on he found himself lifting the hand up and down on his head, slapping his own skull until that didn't have enough effect and so he made a fist and punched the wall again and again until suddenly the noises that were emanating from Serena's throat and the horrified look on Nate's face disappeared from view and there was only a sharp pain in his knuckles as he broke them.

Until through the haze one voice reached him. "Chuck – _Chuck_," Vanessa shouted, grabbing at his hand. "_Stop _it."

It was only with the contact of her skin and her annoyed voice that he finally registered what was happening. Serena and Nate were scared of him. Dan's face was full of compassion. Eric was swallowing over and over. Chuck closed his eyes again. He had failed this test, then. He had let the mask fall and he had not put on a brave face. Maybe he was weak, like Bart had always said. But it seemed that in this moment he simply couldn't accommodate any thought of control.

Vanessa's face – not sentimental, but rallying, expecting more from him, not allowing him to either shy away from the truth, or bow down to it in acquiescence – was where he turned around, where he found his voice.

"What if she dies," he asked, challenging her. "What the fuck do I do if she dies?"

They were looking to him for a way to understand what was happening, and at the sound of his question – the one they scarcely dared think about, but the only one that mattered – they recoiled, as one. Except for poor Vanessa, who had always had a higher than average ability to look the truth in the eye, without flinching.

"Chuck - " Serena started, but before she could finish placating him, Vanessa interrupted, with a hard look on her face.

"If she dies you get angry, you fall into despair, and then you claw yourself back out of it. You claw your way out because Blair would have wanted you to."

"Please. Blair would prefer it if I ran ashes through my hair and wore mourning clothes forever," Chuck snorted, before sobering. "I'd be the same way. I'd never want her to move on." [1]

No one knew quite what to say to that; they knew it was true. Chuck and Blair may have been determined to fight each other for every inch of their relationship, but they were so fiercely united that the very thought of them giving up that fight was inconceivable. No one could contradict him, because he knew Blair inside and out – had fought to understand her every nuance.

But, as the friends realized how hopeless it would be to comfort him, a strange expression came over Chuck's face - somewhere between a growing realization and an enormous feat of strength. For a moment, Vanessa thought he might lend voice to the thought. He got as far as starting the sentence: "But, I - ", before he thought better of it. With a resolute nod, he seemed to pull himself together.

"Fine," he said. "We wait."

With that, he began striding down the hall with a renewed sense of purpose, almost unaware of the solemn group following behind him, exchanging confused glances at his change in behaviour.

**Twenty-Four Hours Earlier**

Although neither of them would ever know it, Chuck and Nate's minds were perfectly in synch that night, despite the city blocks that separated them.

For some reason, as he pulled on his boxers and Serena dose in the low moonlight of his bedroom, Nate found his mind preoccupied by those thoughts of the slow, torturous progress Chuck and Blair had made towards each other. He knew that he ought to have been more focused upon his own issues with Serena: the quick alternation between awkward and stilted conversation giving way to a physical hunger for each other that was so effective at masking the Big Thing. And yet, he couldn't help the way his mind would wander back to his ex-girlfriend and the boy he still considered his best friend: as model, as yardstick – as a basis of comparison that made his own life seem somehow small and insubstantial.

For his part, Chuck found a certain excruciating pleasure in watching Blair in her hospital room, which was filled with shadows, even if it was never truly dark. And so he found his mind wandering, not to those precious memories of their happy times together, but rather to the worst times he and Blair had shared. Because, if the worst happened, they would remain part of the legacy between them – more so, than if they could have passed the long happy life he scarcely dared to envisage for them.

And so from their different positions, under the same moon, Chuck and Nate came to the same memory.

It had been the day that Blair had summoned both Nate and Chuck to her house to act as babysitters for a Serena regressing rapidly to her old ways. It had been a role that both of them were familiar with: being friends with Serena meant forever leaping feet first into a night and slowly emerging from it with few memories and a bad hangover. A night well spent for someone as well-versed in excess as Chuck Bass. And so he had found himself strangely sentimental.

He had made some horrible mistakes in the weeks leading to that day. Not the least of which was those harsh words he had said to Blair in the bar when she had finally come to him, cast out by all others with no where else to turn. After weeks of watching her return to Nate, to turn so easily away from the moments they had stolen since that night at Victrola, Chuck had found himself wondering whether there was anything at all between them. More than anything, he had hated how easily she had walked away from him at the cotillion. He hated how easily she justified it to herself: that there had been no betrayal of Nate because they had broken up. Chuck knew that was how she could justify not telling Nate about their torrid affair; it was the same justification that Chuck himself used when Nate was sitting only inches away, completely oblivious to Chuck and Blair's betrayal.

And how easily she had disposed of him when Nate once more opened his arms to her. How disgusted Chuck was by her ready acceptance of Nate's stuttered apologies, as if his regret since their break-up cancelled out years of neglect. As Chuck sat in the bar that night, he fumed at her – deciding grimly that she had degraded both of them when she had stooped to Nate again. Chuck had too much pride for that. All he had left was pride. It would have been intolerable to allow her back into his life. They had been friends, certainly, but even if that had been all Blair was asking for, he knew that he would never be able to countenance it. And so he had had chosen cruelty, hoping that there would be some satisfaction in showing her that he was not her patsy; that he was Chuck Bass.

He hadn't even felt guilty - not at first. Not until he realized that they were still one in the same, and that every affront to Blair's dignity was an affront to his own.

Of course, he had said nothing to her. Hadn't even had an excuse to be around her, until Serena's life had spiralled out of control and he had been given the tiniest opening to return to her. Not that she even looked at him while he busied himself making phone calls and concocting hangover cures. Probably because Nate stood so nearby, glowering at them. And yet Chuck had ached for her, had been filled with the thought of her, had been so close to redemption in her eyes that he could taste it, even if he couldn't quite figure out how to achieve it.

"Well I personally have never been so attracted to Serena in my life," he'd joked to Nate when they sat alone in Blair's bedroom, listening to the sound of Serena retching as Blair busied herself downstairs.

"That's how you like them, isn't it?" Nate glowered. "Confused and vulnerable."

"Yes," Chuck said softly. "That's how I like them."

That peace-making attempt had been a resounding success. Chuck found himself wandering downstairs, irritated by Nate's stubbornness. Of course, he was really looking for Blair.

He found her in the kitchen in that prim yellow dress, fussing over the coffee machine. He was always a fugitive in her life, in her house. And yet he saw something when she glanced up that made him take pause. It was a flickering impression – gone as soon as it arrived – but if Chuck had been forced to give it a name, he would have called it wistful. It was enough to draw him to her.

"What are you doing down here?" she asked crossly. "You're supposed to be helping Serena."

Chuck stalked around her, noticing with a thrill that she began to fumble with the filter paper, that a few grains of coffee had spilt across the marble surface. She was nervous with him; she was affected by his presence.

"Listening to Serena re-enact her favourite scenes from _The Exorcist _is hardly a two-person job," he commented.

"So you decided to come down and annoy me?" she said in a slightly wavering voice.

"Something like that."

She tried so hard to ignore him, and she wiped the granules of coffee with so much dignity that Chuck felt as if he might weep. Would it always be like this between them? Would they always dance around each other and try to make each other suffer? Surely there had been some tenderness between them. It was ironic that the same intoxicating secrecy that had made their trysts so passionate had poisoned the real emotion that underlay them.

There was no thought of agenda, or power play when he came up from behind and placed his hands on either side of her, encircling her without touching her.

"What do you think - "

"Don't say anything," he whispered, surprising himself with the cracking intensity in his voice.

He was even more surprised when she obeyed. All he had known was that he needed not to have to think of a witty retort; he needed to remember the way it had felt to be near her. To be near her for no other reason than it made him feel alive. And so he didn't even lay a finger on her for a few minutes, simply breathing in the scent of her hair and feeling the heat of her body so near his – he fancied he could even feel the trembles that came over her as he breathed on her neck. He closed his eyes, but he could still sense her gooseflesh.

She didn't lean against him. She was frozen in place as he lifted his hand to stroke her exposed arm. He remembered now how it felt, and although she stood stock-still, he knew that she felt it too. With only one finger, he traced the crook of her arm. Eyes closed, he pressed his cheek against hers, still running his finger up and down her arm.

That was how Nate found them.

His first reaction to the sight of them standing there – Blair in Chuck's arms, both their eyes closed – was to be deeply and inordinately scandalized. Of course, there was nothing particularly scandalous about their pose; Blair had turned her face slightly towards his, where their cheeks met. Her lips were open, so that Chuck could have put his finger between them if he had wanted to. Nate noticed that the hand that wasn't tracing Blair's arm was resolutely resting upon the marble tabletop, one finger brushing against Blair's white knuckles. She seemed to be holding on for dear life, determined not to lean against him, but her face was the very picture of longing.

It was as if Chuck sensed the intrusion, because he opened his eyes to see Nate standing in the doorway.

Chuck was suddenly very aware of how silly he must have looked: just standing there with his cheek pressed against Blair's, not doing anything in particular. Just savouring her presence. He was embarrassed, but for a moment he couldn't bring himself to let go of her. Without letting go of her, he stared at Nate, meeting his eyes for the first time in weeks.

Even now, Nate remembered how it had felt to see the heart-breaking look on Chuck's face. Although it had pained him, the more pressing emotion was one of anger. He hated Chuck for making him feel guilty about hating both of them – he hated the way the depth of emotion Chuck felt for Blair made him feel petty and small for not simply letting it go. And the more ungenerous part of him resented degenerate Chuck for finding something so precious and tenable. When had he, Chuck, become the one capable of great emotions?

He had hated Chuck even more when he stepped away from Blair – breaking all contact and making her frown and open her eyes to see Nate standing before her. She had said something sharp and strode up to her bedroom, glaring at both of them.

Nate glared at Chuck, who crossed his arms over his chest. "If only I'd caught you two in the act months ago I could spare have spared myself a lot of trouble"

"Bite me, Nathaniel," Chuck said calmly. "Your self-righteousness would have been a lot more compelling if it wasn't so hypocritical."

Nate had, as usual, been struck dumb. And even though he didn't admit it to Chuck, the scene continued to niggle at him in the following days until he found himself obsessively replaying it. The reason that the look on Chuck's face had fascinated him so intensely only became clear to Nate a few weeks later, when he heard to his shock that Chuck had deserted Blair on the helipad, and he had rushed to Chuck's suite to talk some sense into him or to knock him around a little bit.

He had found Chuck sitting on his sofa in a wrinkled silk robe with a few days of stubble on his cheeks, listening to a voicemail from a tearful and furious Blair Waldorf from Florence, damning him thrice to hell, calling him unworthy, a brute. Chuck sat there on the sofa with a scotch in one hand, listening to the voicemail again and again with his eyes closed, wearing the exact same expression on his face as he had in Blair's kitchen.

It was all Chuck knew how to do, Nate realized with a start as he took a seat and allowed Chuck to push the bottle towards him with his foot, it was all Chuck was comfortable with. The only thing he knew how to do was to stand near the object of desire, to long desperately for something that he couldn't name. He didn't know how to hold it in his hand.

Nate finally learnt to name the expression: it was one of exultance.

That night, Nate remembered the way Chuck had looked at Blair, even then, long before he had grown up enough to accommodate his feelings for her. How ironic to finally become capable of feelings at the very moment when fate turned against us and threatened to take away the object that had inspired the towering feelings in the first place.

Chuck would never know it, but that night, Nate was terrified for him.

Nurse Hutchinson's day had not begun well; when she had awoken to the squawks and tears of her infant son, she had found him running a temperature. It had been a stressful morning. She'd been forced to drag her teething, red-faced baby to her mother's house before dropping into the chemist to find the liquid Panadol that would ease the poor little thing's symptoms, when really she knew that those wide blue eyes of his would be more appeased by his mother's presence. But, as her shift at the hospital began at six-thirty and it was too late to call in sick, she knew that staying home was out of the question.

When she had stepped into her car, with one glance back at his brimming eyes and the hand twined in his grandmother's hair, she had feel the familiar swoop of guilt that came upon her every time she turned her back on him.

So, when she arrived at work, she found herself feeling insubstantial, with a burning behind her eyes and a swollen throat. She knew that this was just going to be one of those days when she walked through the hospital on the verge of tears.

"Grace," the head of her section frowned. "You're late. I can't keep covering for you like this."

Grace Hutchinson mumbled something incomprehensible as she adjusted her pink scrubs over her body, still feeling fragile after her hectic morning. The older woman's face softened. "It's okay. Just don't let it happen again. You're on room 203."

This little, pitying kindness was almost too much for her. Swallowing back her tears, she shut the door to 203 and leant against it, closing her eyes and summoning the wonderful, milky smell of her son to mind. He was the reason she came to work each day; that was love. Breathing in and out, she opened her eyes to see a young woman lying on the hospital bed, in a deep, chemical-induced sleep. Her long brown hair was twisted in a low bun at the nape and to the left of her neck. Glancing at the shattered shin bone and the angry bruises that covered her alabaster skin, Grace feared for her – feared for the moment when the poor girl would wake up and have to face the excruciating pain that was being held at bay by the steady stream of the saline drip.

"Poor little thing," Grace murmured, smoothing her hair down.

"Is she going to be alright?"

Grace started, glancing at the figure that had been sitting in the visitor's chair since she had entered the room. She couldn't believe that she hadn't noticed him; she had been too distracted by the destruction that had been wrought on (she glanced at the clipboard) WALDORF, Blair's body. Now that she had set eyes on him, she found it impossible to look away.

His face probably would have been handsome had the combination of sleeplessness and grief had transformed it into a flat mask. His eyes were narrowed with extreme focus on the face of the girl on the bed, but they were swollen and bruised around the edges. His cheeks were too sharp; his mouth was pursed. As a nurse, Grace had seen every kind of grief, every kind of suffering. But there was nothing worse than this, the waiting and the questioning without any end in sight. It was a limbo, a void – the moment between life and death where no human should be. She had seen better looking men, but she had rarely seen a focus like this: it was as if the man (boy, really) was convinced that if he stopped concentrating the girl on the bed would slip away.

It was a look too mature for its age, and for an insane moment, Grace would have done anything to swap places with the battered girl on the hospital bed.

"She's going to be fine," Grace said, desperate to tell him what he would want to hear. For a moment he tore his eyes away from the girl and looked at Grace probingly. It was a terrifying thing, to feel as if someone so many years her junior could see down to the core of her. But it was worse to know that he found her foolish, found her reckless promise insulting.

"You don't know anything," he said flatly, shaking his head. "What do you have to do to get some information in this fucking place?"

Feeling horribly exposed, Grace felt the tears burning once more in her eyes. Determined not to let him see her cry, she crossed her arms bitchily, wanting to hurt him a little. "It's Hospital policy only to divulge information to the family. How do we know you're not some obsessive lunatic who has never even met Miss Waldorf?"

Once more, he affixed his dark brown eyes on her face. Another calculating look, before he seemed to realize that there was nothing in particular worth looking at. Such an absolute dismissal that once more Grace felt her ire rising. She would have him thrown out, she thought smugly. She would force him to leave the girl's side. It seemed ridiculously unfair for him to be so arrogant on the morning when she had left her son all alone with a running nose and streaming eyes and -

"Her name is Blair," he said quietly.

Grace stopped dead. It was difficult to say why the sentence shocked her so deeply. But part of it was undoubtedly the fact that hiding inside this arrogant, unpleasant boy was something fierce and loving – like the tone of his voice when he said his lover's name. She was ashamed of herself for wanting to hurt him. She loved her son more than anything in the world, and she was on the verge of tears because of a measly sniffle. Blair Waldorf – the girl underneath the bruises and the tubing – was obviously the centre of his world, and she was teetering somewhere between consciousness and being lost forever.

"Blair," Grace repeated, trying out the name. "And what's your name?"

He opened his mouth, before thinking better of it. It could have been her imagination, but she thought he might have been on the verge of smiling at her question. But, the flash of amusement was gone almost as soon as she noticed it. "Does it matter?"

"I suppose not," she said, glancing at the clipboard. "It looks like there was a compound fracture, which is where the bone pierces the skin…" she glanced up, noticing the twitch in his jaw. "But it's been set, and a metal rod has been placed in the leg to - "

"Metal?" he interrupted. "She's got metal in her leg?"

"To set the bone," Grace explained carefully.

"Good. That's stronger," he said, possibly to himself.

It was something a child might have said, and Grace's heart ached for him. "When the car hit her it seems that some of her ribs were broken – and one pierced her lung, which is why it collapsed." Noticing his look of alarm, she smiled. "It's actually not as big a deal as it seems. She's asleep now because of the drugs, to give her body some time to recuperate without pain."

Somehow, his frown deepened and his hands clasped in his lap. "She'll be in pain when she wakes up?"

"We'll give her something for it."

He smiled ruefully. "When she sees the hospital gown you people have put her on, you're the ones who are going to need the painkillers."

Grace returned the smile tentatively. "We'll just give her more sedatives if things turn ugly."

He leant forward in the chair, and Grace had the sneaking suspicion that he was afraid to touch her. "So she's going to be okay?"

"Well, it looks that way. Although, complications happen."

His head whipped around. "What did you say?"

"I said that complications sometimes happen," she explained tentatively.

He seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then, he nodded to himself. "Complications happen. And we can't control them."

She wasn't quite sure what they were talking about anymore. "No, we can't."

There was a beat of silence. Then, awkwardly, as if he had never done so before, he thanked her. She smiled at him, and was about to ask him his name once more when the door opened to expose a surprised man standing at the entrance.

"Charles," Harold Waldorf said stiffly, glancing at Blair. "May I ask what you're doing in here – and more specifically why _you _haven't yet asked him to leave my daughter alone?"

"I – uh," Grace felt those traitorous tears burning in her eyes once more and wished that she had turned around to retrieve her baby this morning instead of going to work and standing between an angry looking father and a half-wild boyfriend who looked like they were about to lay waste to the hospital.

"You can go," Chuck said coolly – his icy tone belying his attempt to get her out of trouble. She looked at him gratefully before running for the exit.

And then it was just Harold and Chuck eyeing each other over Blair's unmoving body.

"What are you doing here, Charles?" Harold asked in a quiet voice.

Chuck crossed his arms, the front of his thighs pressed firmly against the side of Blair's bed, although not touching her. "I have a right to be here."

Harold's eyebrows quirked before he continued in that irritatingly calm voice: as if he were speaking to a madman. "What right, precisely, do you think you have?"

So. They were finally going to have this fight, Chuck realized, running a hand over the stubble that had now become a visible presence on his face. Taking in Harold's immaculate appearance, Chuck wished that he'd had time to go home and change before confronting the man who seemed, at the very least, to share his appreciation for fine apparel.

"The kind of right that people who stay around have," Chuck said coolly.

"So that was _another_ Chuck Bass who ran away to Bangkok?"

With a start, Chuck realized that Harold had developed another weapon in his arsenal, quite apart from the benefit of a full night's sleep. Chuck knew that Dorota was an avid fan of _Gossip Girl_. It seemed that there was another convert in the Waldorf residence. Regardless, Chuck felt a sense of self-righteousness fill him – an unfamiliar feeling.

"You know, I've had about enough of two of the most absentee parents on the Upper East Side lecturing me about my desertions of Blair."

Any veneer of calmness fled from Harold's face – it had almost twisted into a sneer. "I am not going to apologise to some punk kid about the decisions I've made in my life."

"I'm not asking for an apology. I'm just asking you to acknowledge reality. While you were off fucking around behind your family's back and Eleanor was swanning off with her head up her ass pretending it wasn't happening, who do you think was looking after Blair?"

"Oh do not feed me that line of crap," Harold spat furiously. "Do not act like you were some paragon of virtue pining after my daughter and bolstering her in her time of need. Don't forget Charles – I _know_ you. I've _seen _you. Again and again."

It was as if the older man's words had sparked a series of recollections that played before Chuck's eyes. He remembered Harold's look of disapproval as he opened the door to his own bedroom in the Waldorf penthouse to find Chuck with his pants around his ankles as Hazel or Penelope sucked him off. Chuck flushed slightly when he realized that Harold had found him in any number of compromising positions, had taken drugs from his person at Blair's birthday parties, had seen him stumbling out of bars half-conscious.

But Chuck wouldn't allow Harold to forget that he had _seen_ Blair's father himself. The very first time he had uncovered Harold's secret life had been on one of those late night jaunts into the seedy underbelly of his beloved city. He had seen Harold clearly – long before the man had met Roman and fallen in love, back when he was straining under the pressure of a secret life – as he slipped a few Benjamin Franklins into a young male prostitute's pocket when he had emerged from an alley behind a well-known cruising bar in Hell's Kitchen. Chuck remembered the thrilling feeling that always came with uncovering a dark secret – he remembered being thrilled by the discovery.

Until he had remembered the proud tilt of Blair's head and the fact that the information would have destroyed her family – then he had been determined to cover Harold's tracks. He knew that Harold remembered the comments he had made at one of Bart's brunches, but what Harold could not know was that Chuck's knowing rebuke was meant as a reminder to remedy the carelessness that would shatter the thin veneer of Blair's perfect life.

Even now, he couldn't bring himself to throw the memories back in Harold's face when Blair lay only inches away.

"I think we would do well to remember the old adage about people in glass houses not throwing stones at this point," Chuck said in a lethal tone.

"You realize what this," Harold gestured over Blair's prone form, "means, don't you? Physiotherapy, hospital visits, weeks of incapacity, just sitting around waiting for doctor's appointments. _This_ is everything that you've always rebelled against. _This_ is not who you are."

"You're saying this as someone who has made a profound and heartfelt attempt to get to know me, of course," Chuck said sarcastically.

Harold shrugged. "I know you're type."

Chuck felt a wave of anger come over him: how dare Harold presume to make sweeping statements about him. If Blair hadn't been in the room, he might have considered punching the man in the knowing mouth. But as it was, he merely narrowed his eyes at Harold. "You don't know the first thing about me – and if you're smart you will keep your opinions of me to yourself."

Harold was too proud to concede his point. With a cruel smile, he shook his head at Chuck's proud and threatening words. "Do you really imagine that you can threaten me?"

Chuck gave him a thin smile. "I am fairly certain I could not only threaten you, but actually destroy you."

Harold gestured widely. "How? You have money, you have pretences of grandeur – but really, what are you going to do to me, Charles? Do you honestly believe you can win this fight?" He glanced at Blair. "Do you honestly imagine that in a choice between me and you that you will come out swinging?"

Chuck opened his mouth as if to reply, before falling silent. How desperately he wished he could tell Harold that he honestly believed he would win. But it was impossible for him to say; he and Blair were in completely different positions. She was tied to so many people – so many people with better claims on her than Chuck. He couldn't even convince the hospital staff to divulge information about her condition. And, as he looked at Blair's still form, he realized suddenly how silent her state was, how mute her thoughts were. He wondered what images played through her mind when it was reduced to its most simple state. He wondered whether he coloured her dreams.

Dimly, he noticed that Roman had entered the room. Harold didn't turn to acknowledge him; he was staring too intently at Chuck's face. Roman hovered awkwardly behind him, worrying his lip with his teeth and watching the altercation.

"I would never ask her to make that choice," Chuck said finally.

"You've been asking her to make it every day," Harold said flatly. "You ask her to make that choice every time you allow her to step out into public with her, every time you tell a foolish lie about college, and every time you encourage her to pursue some infantile quest for revenge. You ask her to choose between the life she deserves and the life you can offer her everyday. What can you offer her, Charles? You tell me."

It maybe have been the cramp in his neck or the way his clothes fell in a rumpled mess over his body, but for the life of him, Chuck couldn't think of a single thing to say. The only thing that came to mind was that magical phrase that seemed to have changed everything between them. But saying, "_I love her_" as a justification for snatching away the things that her father described seemed a thin, watery sentiment. Without Blair assuring him of the awesome power of the phrase, Chuck found himself unable to conjure its magic. They were just words – and words were not enough for this situation.

And so he said nothing, merely turned his eyes to Blair's face. Something in the look on his face took the breath out of Harold's lungs. It was a perfect moment of frozen emotion: there was love, sadness, a fierce tenderness and, most disconcertingly, a predatory look that reminded Harold that no matter how difficult it was for him to accept, Blair was a woman, and one who Chuck not only loved, but desired desperately. That look, there, was the reason that Harold feared their relationship. It was too adult, too real for his young daughter, and it would bring nothing but trouble. And so Harold ignored the fact that Chuck's face had been a type of answer in itself, instead allowing the silence to draw out, as if he were in the midst of his own courtroom theatrics.

"That's what I thought," Harold said quietly.

Humiliated and tongue-tied, Chuck moved towards the door of Blair's room. But, he paused, teetering on the threshold. "Don't look so smug," he spat. "You don't get to order me out of this hospital and you don't get to order me out of her life. Only Blair gets to do that."

Chuck imagined that one day he would be asked what the lowest point of the previous year had been.

He imagined himself in a room full of memories and books, looking into the eyes of someone much younger than him. He imagined trying to spin the story into something of substance; he imagined summoning the young man who heard his words with some stiff invitation of a drink or a meeting, and then feeling compelled to relate the story of the twelve-month period that passed between Lily and Bart's wedding, Bart's death, and the end of high school.

There was no doubt in Chuck's mind that he was living a period of his life that would never dim. His eyes may one day be clouded with age, may have looked on thousands of new faces, but he would never forget this time. It was heavy with significance.

Of course, right then, leaning on the door to Blair's hospital room, it occurred to him that this moment was the worst of his life. Not so much because what had been said just then or what had happened to Blair was the worst thing that had happened to him – the loss of a parent, the loss of the idea of a parent had been technically worse – but rather because each feeling he'd experienced paled in comparison to the timbre and complexity of this moment.

And the only person he wanted to talk to, was lying silent and unmoving in the room he had been dismissed from. For a moment, he hated her for that. A little bit. And even that tiny seed of resentment made him guilty.

"Well you must be feeling happy with yourself, Harold," Roman said quietly when the door swung shut behind Chuck and the blinds rattled.

"Oh don't you start," Harold said tiredly, pinching his nose.

"No really," Roman continued. "Acting like a complete asshole to your daughter's lover is a very mature way of dealing with a horrible situation."

"What the hell would you know about this situation, Roman? You don't have children."

He didn't have to look at Roman's face to know that he had wounded him. It was easier to look at Blair, really. There was a simplicity about her unmoving body – so much simpler than a real, live and moving person, full of hidden intentions and bad decisions.

"I know enough to know that you are trying to destroy that which your daughter cherishes. What I do not understand is why you do these things?"

There was a long pause, before Harold turned around to face him, finally dropping the mask that he had been wearing as he challenged Chuck. Alone with Roman, he was allowed to be vulnerable, easily bruised. He shook his head. "I'm losing my daughter to Chuck Bass."

With that, Roman took Harold in his arms and held him tight. For a while they stood there, but Harold knew Roman well enough to know that he was working up the courage to ask him something important. When he finally spoke, it was in that low voice that he saved for private moments with Harold. It was a voice that Harold couldn't help but listen to.

"When can we go home?" Roman asked, his head full of the sound of Harold's cruel words to Chuck, a part of him scared of the way his lover looked when he tried desperately to hate Chuck. It made Roman wonder whether it would be possible for Harold to hate _him_ that way, one day.

Letting go of Roman, Harold crossed his thoroughly stubborn, thoroughly _Waldorf _arms. "When I know that my daughter is going to be safe."

"I'll spare you the surprise, darling," Roman whispered. "She never will be safe. Not unless you…want to do the, uh. You know. The uh - " struggling for the word in English, Roman gestured manically, before straightening in triumph. "The '_Get Thee To A Nunnery_' thing."

After a confused pause, Harold burst out laughing. Even though Roman was a bit hurt that Harold found his awkward English so amusing, he couldn't help but laugh with him. Their conversation was over for the time being, as Harold returned to his arms, resting his head on Roman's shoulder, still laughing occasionally. "Oh my darling," he said through streaming eyes. "If only I'd had the foresight to send her to a nunnery ten years ago. I'd have a much easier time of it."

"No," Roman protested, wrapping his arms around Harold's waist and breathing in the scene of his aftershave. "She would have become boring. You never would have been able to stand a boring daughter."

Turning slightly, so that Blair's face was in sight, Harold struggled with the image of his daughter that had been conjured over and over on the pages of _Gossip Girl_. Queen Bitch. The Evil Incarnate. The Sexual Deviant. But soon enough, these labels faded until there was nothing but a sweet and innocent girl, whose body had been stitched back together.

"A boring daughter with a queen for a father and a diva for a mother," Harold chuckled. "It would have been an apt sort of punishment, wouldn't it?"

Gazing at Harold's eyes, Roman smiled gently. "What on earth could you be punished for?"

Harold didn't answer. He merely leant forward to kiss Roman lightly on the lips. Let his lover think the best of him; he could do with the comfort. As for Blair, Harold was determined to help her become once more that sweet girl who had twirled for him in her red velvet dress at Christmas.

Thinking of the threateningly passionate depths of Chuck Bass's eyes and the aching expression on the boy's face, Harold frowned. He knew that Blair was special, but there was something terrifying about the depth of feeling that he had seen in Chuck's eyes. The pair of them had conjured something between them, something unique and a little bit dark, something that scared the life out of him.

Perhaps there were worst things than boring.

.*

Vanessa couldn't quite believe that this was the first she was hearing of Blair's accident, but really it was unsurprising. Her contact with the Upper East Side was fairly restricted to Chuck and Blair herself – and Vanessa knew that with Blair in hospital, Chuck would be too overwrought to even think of calling her. Not to mention the fact that the boy didn't even know how to ask for help. Vanessa herself wasn't helping matters by working with an almost monomaniacal focus on the footage she and Blair had recorded of the women's shelter.

Strangely enough, despite having fallen out of contact with Blair for at least a week, Vanessa had been thinking about her a lot. As she painstakingly edited the footage, constantly striving for a more surprising shot, a more interesting angle, she had seen something quite remarkable. It was as if Vanessa had not recorded Blair as she was today, but had somehow caught a glimpse of the future. It was while she was watching Blair interview the women who had fled their homes, that Vanessa realized something about Blair's true nature.

Although she knew that Blair had always tried to embody the perfection she saw in Audrey Hepburn, Vanessa realized that there was another famous woman of the same name who sprang to mind when Blair walked across the screen. At times tough, at times almost goofy, she shifted effortlessly between haughtiness and a passionate focus on the task at hand. Blair never entered a scene without conquering it.

With a slight smile, Vanessa realized that Blair had been wrong. She was not Audrey Hepburn – or at least, she wasn't anymore. She was quite clearly Katharine Hepburn. And so, as a little side project, she had begun compiling clips of the elder Hepburn, interspersed with those classic quotes: _"enemies are so stimulating", "if you obey all the rules you miss all the fun"_. She had even gone so far as to send Chuck a video clip of some of Hepburn's more Blair-esque bon mots. She had included a short message: "_Remind you of anyone we know?"_ to which Chuck had responded almost immediately: "_Yes, but Blair's hotter_."

How quickly Chuck had passed from being a shameless degenerate to being the sort of boyfriend that girls would sigh over. Even Vanessa had felt a faint swoop of envy at his effortless compliments – her eyes falling on Dan who was snoozing on her bed with a book lying on his chest. Not for the first time, she wondered whether Dan was dreaming of her, or whether another woman filled his subconscious mind.

She quickly silenced those thoughts, reminding herself that she had wanted this for the longest time and that now was the time to be happy and enjoy it. So she set herself the task of completing the documentary she and Blair had created, deciding that she would call her friend only when it was completed.

And so, it was only when she walked out of Dan's bedroom to find the Humphrey family hunched over coffees at the kitchen table that she learnt of what had happened.

"I don't know what else to tell you, Dan," Rufus said tiredly. "He was upset, that much is clear, but he's a hard person to read."

"And what about…Blair's friends," Dan asked in a reasonable facsimile of casual. "What about…"

"Serena?" Jenny asked with an eyebrow raised as her hand played with the bangles that covered the majority of her forearm.

"And Nate," Dan said quickly.

"Right," Jenny said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "You're really worried about Nate."

"No, no – Nate really does worries me," Dan grinned. "I worry that he might get so distracted by something shiny that he steps in front of traffic…"

It was a casual statement, but from the moment he uttered it, he seemed to register that it had been the wrong thing to say. Rufus sighed slightly and leaned against the counter, rubbing his eyes. Jenny frowned and looked at her lap.

Dan grimaced. "Sorry – poor choice of words."

Until then, Vanessa had merely been languishing in the feeling of eavesdropping – she had learnt from Chuck that sometimes waiting an extra minute before leaping into the fray would allow you to garner useful information about a potential foe. Idly, she thought she should call Chuck and get his opinion on Dan expressing interest in Serena's well being…it was only then that Vanessa _truly_ registered what was being said. Stepping out of the hidden space between Dan's bedroom door and the dining room, Vanessa strode into the kitchen. The three members of the Humphrey clan wore guilty looks, she noticed.

"Dan," she said fearfully. "Did something happen?"

She had been forced to come here alone; she had been angry with him for that, as she threw on her clothes and he sat in his desk chair with a hang-dog look on his face. He said words about not intruding, but they both knew that he was afraid to see Serena. Honestly, Vanessa was afraid for him to see her as well, but that didn't stop her from slamming the drawer that he had made for her and snapping at him when he offered her his keys and told her to come back after she was done there.

"I don't know how long it will take," she snapped. "We don't even know if she's even awake yet. And Chuck might need me. You remember – our _friend_ whose girlfriend is in hospital?"

He said nothing, and she left in a huff. She had never known Dan to be a coward.

Nonetheless, when she entered the hospital, her only thought was on Blair and the strange friendship she had with both her and Chuck. Clutching her bag under the crook of her arm, she wandered to the desk and asked whether she could visit Blair Waldorf. When they informed her that Miss Waldorf was still under sedation, she asked whether she could see his family.

It hadn't even occurred to her that the nurse would assume she meant Blair's parents rather than Chuck.

She took in the elegant curl of Eleanor's hair – too immaculate for her to have slept in the hospital – and the proud arch of Harold's brow and decided that she would rather be hit over the head with an anvil than talk to them. She noticed Eleanor eyeing her, however. She was, after all, wearing one of the tops that Eleanor had designed. Blair had given it to her, and she had worn it in the hope that it would make Blair smirk at her and tell her that she had known all along that all Vanessa needed was a bit more of the "Blair touch".

Out of sight of Eleanor's eagle eye, she pulled out her phone, dialling Chuck's number and unsurprised when he didn't answer. She had half-hoped that she would be able to hear the personalised ring-tone he had obnoxiously awarded her when they had become official friends: "Shuv It" by Santogold. Chuck and Blair always cracked up when the first line: "Brooklyn, we go hard" would tinkle through the tinny speaker of Chuck's blackberry.

Dan had just rolled his eyes, knowing that he received just as much mockery for his own ring-tone on Chuck's phone. Blair had decided that "Kiss Me Thru the Phone" by Soulja Boy was a fitting tribute to Chuck and Dan's bromance. Chuck knew that it annoyed him enough to make it worth the guy-love jokes that Blair made whenever he and Dan arranged one of their coffee dates. Chuck was many things – but homophobe he was not.

It took her a moment to notice the whispers that seemed to be emanating from a room right in front of her. Surely that couldn't be who she thought it was. But, with a start she realized that it was indeed Serena's voice. For the second time that day, Vanessa found herself eavesdropping. Chuck really did have a point, albeit a rather creepy stalkerish one.

"We can't do this here," she whispered. "We need to check on Chuck."

"Chuck's with Blair," a voice that unmistakably belonged to Nate responded.

Without making a noise, needing to confirm the obvious conclusion, she walked to the door of a deserted hospital room. There, in the low light of morning, were Serena and Nate, entwined in each other's arms, kissing.

"Oh you _have _to be freaking kidding me," Vanessa blurted out, almost amused when they sprang apart.

"Vanessa," Nate breathed, unconsciously wiping his lips.

"Nate," Vanessa nodded tightly. "Serena."

"Vanessa," Serena said, biting her lip. "We were just - "

Although her face was cold, she held up a hand. "You don't owe _me_ any explanation," she said flatly. "I mean, who among us _doesn't_ find hospital waiting rooms an irresistible aphrodisiac?"

It was a pathetic attempt at a joke, and Vanessa knew it. But she also knew that now was not the time for their high school dramas. Besides, reading the posture of the pair before her, she knew that explanations would be useless; even they couldn't have explained what they were thinking.

She opened her mouth to ask about Blair: to break the tension with the one thing that united them all. But at that moment, she was distracted by a door slam and hurried footsteps. Part of her must have recognised the tap-tap-tap of Chuck's footsteps. But when she saw him, she was shocked by his appearance. Standing in the hallway, with Nate and Serena hidden in the room, she could have been entirely alone in the hallway. But he still didn't seem to notice her.

"Chuck - " she said hesitantly.

His head whipped around and Vanessa was suddenly nervous. He was classically unpredictable, and he looked overwrought in his rumpled clothes and with his bloodshot eyes. He was a total mess – and to see someone usually so self-possessed lose himself ever for a moment was more than she could stand. But, it was more painful to see in his eyes that his guard was down: that the sight of her here was almost too much for her.

"Vanessa," he choked out.

Before she knew what she was doing, she reached out and let him stumble into her arms, secretly relieved that he wasn't crying. He just seemed exhausted, and the thought of watching him stand there, dead on his feet was more than she could withstand. They may have been close friends, but they had certainly never been the types to show physical affection. The hug was stilted, awkward, but she knew that it was what he needed.

Opening his eyes over her shoulder he noticed suddenly that Nate and Serena were gaping at them. Suddenly painfully self-aware, Chuck pulled himself free and leant against the wall in a pose that may have seemed casual to someone who wasn't aware that he was barely holding himself up. Vanessa glanced at Serena and Nate's faces, aware that they must be surprised at how close she and Chuck had gotten in their absence, hurt that they were replaceable in his life.

"Well," Chuck drawled tiredly. "Isn't this a nice reunion special? All we need is Humphrey for the scene to be complete."

Vanessa almost groaned at his perfect timing when right then his phone launched into the strains of "Kiss Me Thru The Phone". Chuck just smirked as if he had planned it this way all along, before he pressed the green button.

"Speak of the wannabe Hemmingway and he will appear," Chuck said smugly into the phone.

"Chuck? Vanessa already went down to the hospital – and I just got here and was wondering…"

In an almost comic twist, Dan rounded the corner at that moment, suddenly aware that the whole crowd had been listening to his voice echoing up the hall. Feeling sheepish, he continued to talk into the phone.

"…I was wondering whether the whole team was here. Listening to our conversation."

"Inept as ever, Humphrey," Chuck said. "I think it's safe to say that I bring the wit and poise to our relationship."

Vanessa had the sneaking suspicion that he was starting to enjoy himself. She shot him an irritated look, which only made his smirk grow. If she was honest with herself, however, she was just relieved that his mind seemed to be off Blair for the time being. It was about at this point that Dan became aware of Serena and Nate. With a painful lurch, he noted how close they stood to each other, noted her guilty expression, and noted Vanessa aware of his every reaction.

Chuck had always loved confrontation – as long as it didn't include himself and Blair's parents. With an almost blissful look on his face, he offered them all a veritable grin. "If things are about to turn violent, can you all give me a second to put some money on the outcome?"

"Things aren't going to turn violent," Serena said forcefully with a pointed look at Nate.

"What?"

Serena shrugged. "You're a bit of an instigator."

"I am not!" he protested.

Vanessa almost smiled. Almost. "You do tend to let your fists do the speaking."

"Well," Chuck shrugged. "They move faster than his tongue."

Only Dan stood there, frozen, giving Nate an icy look. Chuck had been joking of course, but he honestly thought there was more than a little potential for bloodshed. Knowing that now was the worst possible moment for this altercation to take place, Chuck took a breath, ready to act as peacemaker (a role he wasn't used to), but at that moment, he saw Eleanor striding up the hall, throwing him that same annoyed look that she had worn every time she saw that he was not willing to leave. She was followed by a couple of doctors.

"Something's happening," he breathed, forgetting all about his friends, hurrying up the hall to Blair's room. But, Eleanor had a head start, and made certain to close the door on his face before he even reached it. Faced with a closed door yet again, and unused to not getting his way, he let out a low hiss of frustration.

Chuck struck the wall next to it, making the blinds shake. "Dammit," he cursed, turning back around to his friends. Seeing their surprised and sympathetic looks, he felt the urge to put something into words. "They just – I mean, any way to cut me out…any tiny fucking way to make sure I'm out of the loop. They're just such…"

"Douchebags?" Nate offered innocently.

Chuck smiled ruefully. "I was thinking of a more fitting word…starts with 'c', rhyme with 'blunt'. But your version is good too."

"What's a clunt?" Nate asked with a frown as Chuck, Serena, and even Vanessa burst out laughing.

It happened so quickly that Harold scarcely had time to draw a line between the Before and the After. One moment he was watching her sleep and the next, she was making a steady, graceful step back into the waking world. Causing barely a ripple.

Her eyes blinked a few times before finally settling on her father's face. "Daddy?"

He nodded, his eyes brimming with tears, holding Roman's hand tightly in his own. "I'm here, Bear."

"Where are we?"

"We're in hospital – you were in a car accident. Don't you remember?"

She grimaced as an image of screeching metal came to mind. Mutely, she nodded, turning her big brown eyes in his direction. She was the very picture of the innocence he had been striving to re-enliven within her. With his heart in his throat, he stepped forward as Roman dutifully dialled Eleanor's number. Although he never looked away from her face, she frowned and searched the room.

Finally settling upon him, Blair's frown deepened. "Daddy, where's Chuck?"

Harold winced. It was a hard thing to accept that you were no longer the most important figure in your child's life. Ignoring Roman's sharp look, he smiled indulgently at her. "He's gone, but your mother's on her way."

Bewildered, Blair's voice gained a degree of strength. "What do you mean, gone?"

"He's outside," Roman interrupted.

Her face relaxed and Harold shot annoyed look in his Roman's direction, who shrugged unapologetically. "Yes, well…the doctors have to check you out first. Does it hurt, sweetheart?"

In the muddle of morphine and the confusion of losing several days to a medically induced coma, Blair could scarcely differentiate between herself and the bed beneath her. Waving her hand dismissively, feeling only a dull ache, she focused on clearing her head. "It doesn't matter – when can I see Chuck?"

Harold was beginning to get irritated. "Soon," he snapped, before his face softened. "You scared us, Blair."

Snippets seemed to be coming back to her. She remembered going to meet Chuck: for their date. Taking in the cheap polyester that now covered her, she knitted her brow. The thoughts refused to form properly. "What did they do to my dress?"

"They had to cut it off," Roman said apologetically, almost mournfully as Harold rolled his eyes at their theatrics.

"That was couture!" she moaned.

"I think the more important issue to focus on is the fact that you're okay, rather than the loss of an over-priced dress."

Both Roman and Blair gaped at him. Harold couldn't help but smile. This is how he wanted it: to be ganged up on by his two favourite people. Without the interference of Chuck Bass or the social order. He watched as Blair experimentally wiggled her toe, which was visible in its hefty cast, noticing how she cringed with the pain, even through all the painkillers. With her less bruised hand, she pulled the blanket away to set eyes upon her mangled leg. There were angry red lines that were sure to scar where the doctors had inserted a metal pole. With growing consciousness came a growing awareness that not only did every square inch of her body hurt – up to her eyeballs – but also a sense of her own appearance. She touched her face, feeling the bruises, knowing that she must look grotesque.

When the door flew open, Blair's head whipped around – scarcely able to hide her disappointment when she saw it was Eleanor. But she was soon distracted when Eleanor burst into tears. Her face softened, her eyes widened as her mother sobbed.

"My baby," Eleanor repeated, over and over.

Soon enough, though, Eleanor regained control and began fussing around her daughter's bed, arranging flowers that had been sent and ordering the nurses to get more pillows, peering over the doctor's shoulder as he examined Blair's leg and took her vitals. For her part, Blair stayed still, hoping that if she behaved herself, she might be allowed to see Chuck. Chuck, who was outside. Chuck, who must have been terrified.

"Will it leave a scar?" Eleanor asked suddenly, staring intently at Blair's leg.

The doctor shrugged. "Probably. There will also be a small scar where we inserted the tube for the collapsed lung."

Blair heard this as if from a great distance. It was incomprehensible to her that they were speaking of her body. Her eyes slipped to her mother's face as she pursed her lips.

"Scars fade," Harold commented in a low voice, his eyes also falling on Eleanor's face.

"Of course, they fade," Eleanor said quickly, swallowing her own preoccupation with aesthetics and instead smiling reassuringly at Blair's face. "And the important thing is that Blair regains her strength." Her eyes fell on Roman, misinterpreting his disapproving stare for a kindred spirit – oblivious to the horrified looks the nurses were shooting her. "It's a shame, is all, don't you think? She was always so perfect."

Not for the fist time since he had met Eleanor, Harold felt the insane urge to slap her. But, as he always had, he controlled his urge, controlled his surprise at her careless words, reminding himself that she had gotten much worse in the light of his infidelities. She didn't mean to be so insensitive to Blair – it was just the way she thought. She would probably go home and start designing a line of tights that would obscure the scars, unaware how deeply she had affected her daughter's self-esteem. But, Harold hated her for it. And knew that Blair would hate her too.

"Mother," Blair said quietly. "Can you lend me your mirror?"

Eleanor shifted from foot to foot, trying to avoid Harold's eyes, before mutely handing over the small mirror she kept in her purse.

Blair knew that it was her: she recognised her own features. But what she didn't recognise was the purple bruises that now marred the flesh of her face – the scratches that played at the ends of her slightly swollen left eye. She had become something quite unrecognisable, and for the first time since waking up, she recoiled from the thought of allowing anyone to see her this way. With her mouth a grim line, she handed the mirror back to her mother, who seemed to realize her own mistake.

"Blair - " Harold started.

"Don't let anyone see me," Blair said flatly.

"I'm just saying – if you want me to…"

"Nate," Serena snapped.

"What?" he asked, holding up his hands to ward her off before turning back to Chuck, who was sitting opposite him, with Vanessa to his left and Dan two seats along on Vanessa's other side. Serena's eyes couldn't help but continuously return to Vanessa and Dan's clasped hands. A fact that everyone was trying to ignore in deference to Chuck's pinched face and nervous foot-tapping. "I'm just saying, that if Chuck wants me to hit another doctor, I'll do it."

"And he's already told you not to worry about it," Serena said flatly. "So let it go."

Nate crossed his arms and looked away from her cold face. "At least I'm attempting to problem-solve."

"Well do us all a favour and do it silently, with some butcher's paper, the way God intended," Vanessa interrupted, before turning to Chuck. "You know, if there had been some sort of complication, we would have seen people rushing in and out. Everything looks quiet."

"She's woken up," Chuck said quietly. "And they're keeping me from her."

Vanessa and Dan exchanged worried glances. Several times, Chuck had knocked on the door or had one of them knock on it. But to no avail. The doctors were sworn to secrecy and no amount of cajoling, threats, or bribes would lessen their resolve.

"They can't keep you from her forever," Dan said sincerely. "Especially if she's woken up. I mean, really. Can you imagine _Blair_ letting them even try?"

All five teenagers paused to glare at Harold and Roman as they hurried down the hall and out the door of the hospital. As always, Chuck felt a thrill of resentment at their easy entry and exit of the building. He hadn't seen natural light for days now. And for some reason the fact made him all the more aware that no one particularly cared where he was, apart from those in front of him.

"Charles," a voice said, shaking him from his reverie.

There was deathly silence as all of them looked towards Eleanor's face. Somewhere between contrition and defiance, she looked down at Blair's boyfriend, noting his dishevelled appearance, trying to avoid the accusing looks of Nate and Serena.

"What is it, Eleanor?" Chuck asked, in a surprisingly gentle voice.

"Harold's gone now," she said quietly. "I sent him out to get some food. And I think maybe…I might have said the wrong thing. Maybe it's time you went and talked to her."

"To Blair?" he asked, already leaping to his feet before she even finished her sentence.

There was an indescribable look of appraisal in her eyes when she saw the desperation in his eyes. There was an unmistakable look of realization on her face when she nodded slightly and he positively sprinted to Blair's room. Sighing slightly, Eleanor's body sagged. Until she noticed four pairs of eyes staring at her intently, with looks ranging from confusion to downright dislike. She tried to summon in her mind the foul deeds that had been reported on that gossip website of theirs, but for the life of her she could barely remember what they were, too horrified by the image of her that was being reflected back at her from their judgemental eyes.

"Why were you keeping him from her, Eleanor?" Serena asked suddenly. "They're in love."

Such a simple statement – such a simple way of seeing the world. Eleanor pursed her lips and glared at Serena, annoyed by her naïveté. She had always liked Serena, drawn to the girl's beauty. But now it seemed like a foolish favouritism for a bubblegum brain in a beautiful body. What could Serena understand of Eleanor's mind?

"I will not be judged by you, Serena," she snapped. "Especially by you."

With that, she hurried down the hall to call Cyrus, leaving the teenagers who presumed to judge her where they belonged: on the outside.

There was no hesitation this time, when Chuck burst into her room. There was merely a longing to see her eyes open, to have the silence that had surrounded her broken for the first time in so long. When he opened the door, he found her angled away from it, staring in the direction of the window, even though the blinds had been closed across. But her eyes were open, and the sight filled him with joy. Swallowing the lump that had inexplicably lodged itself in his throat, he took in the faint patches of colour on her cheeks, visible under the bruising.

His eyes devoured her; it was as if her injuries had served only to heighten the sense he had of her innate superiority. She had always been different, special – something to be in awe of. Even now, he was in awe of her.

"Blair," he near-whispered, kneeling next to her bed. "You're awake."

"Yes," she said flatly.

He put his hand over her forehead, unsure whether to touch her would hurt her. So he settled with touching her hair as it fanned across the pillow. It could have been his imagination, but he felt as if she were scooting away from him with what little freedom of movement she had. But at this point, he didn't care. "God you scared me."

"I'm sorry," she said, still using that unaffected voice.

"Nothing to be sorry about," he protested, frowning. "I just haven't heard anything, I couldn't get through the door. Your mother is a dungeon-master by the way. Nate had to hit a GP just to make a distraction for me to get in here the first time. And even after you woke up she wouldn't let me see you, until out of nowhere she invites me in. I have no idea what her problem is - "

"I asked her not to let anyone in," she said, still staring at the window.

The voice was starting to annoy him. He pulled away from the bed, got off his knees. He knew this voice; he had used it before. It was the flat voice and complete sentences of someone desperately trying to convey their annoyance. Chuck had used it on any number of women enquiring after his whereabouts the morning after what had been a meaningless one-night-stand. The fact that Blair was using this voice on him not only deeply wounded him, but also activated those shields that had long since fallen down between them. Because, the most frustrating part of conversations like this was that two could play this game.

"And why would you do something like that?" He asked, matching her cold tone.

It was only then that she turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were flat, and Chuck was overcome by the feeling that a curtain had fallen behind her eyes. He remembered suddenly his recollection of his father's words when he was a child: that there are some dark places that you can never enter. And whatever had transpired for Blair today had forced her to retreat into the darkest place that she could find. And he wasn't certain that he could reach her.

"It's okay, Chuck," she said softly, cruelly. "You don't have to pretend. Just go."

"What are you talking about?" he spat, his arms crossed.

"This is hardly your scene," Blair said, gesturing dismissively at her own body. "So I'm giving you an escape hatch. Go."

The unjustness of her statement knocked the air from him. Didn't she realize what it felt like to imagine her reduced to something that could be thrown through the air as if she weighed no more than if she were stuffed with cotton? Didn't she realize that without her eyes looking into his, he didn't know who he was, didn't know how to be Chuck Bass? Didn't she realize that he had whispered prayers to a god he didn't even believe in, offering anything – offering his sight, offering his money, offering anything at all – if she would just be alright?

In his mind, the scene had played out differently. This was meant to be the moment of certainty, when all the doubts that had been instilled in him by her parents and the lonely expanse of his life was filled by her smile and her arms wrapping around his head as he let her see the tears he had tried so hard to hide. But instead, she had closed herself off from him. Instead, she was looking at him as if he were a stranger.

"Are you seriously asking me to leave?"

She turned around to face him, wanting to shock him with the full force of her disfigured face, but his expression did not change in the slightest. That threw her a bit, made her question her plan. She looked at him, forcing herself to imagine him in another woman's arms, forcing herself to imagine him as he had once been in the hope she could erase the Chuck she had come to know in the course of their relationship. It would have been easier then to push him away. And yet, hadn't she always known that they would be even more efficient at hurting each other if they succumbed to their feelings?

"Yes. I'm asking you to leave."

His face softened, taking note of the moment of hesitation. He took a step forward. "Blair I know what you're doing – and it's not going to work. I am not walking away from us just because of a rough patch."

"A rough patch?" she laughed. "That's all we seem to have Chuck. Either I'm pandering to your every need – turning my back on my family, my friends – or we're fighting. I'm not pushing you away, I'm telling you the truth. And I'd be saying it to you even if I wasn't in this hospital bed."

His jaw clenched. "What's the truth, then?"

She swallowed, struggling to maintain that feeling of detachment. "The truth is that we were always going to fall apart. We had, at most, a few months before college started before things ended between us. I thought we had a shot when you told me you were going to Yale. I was wrong."

"I'm sorry I fucked up your perfect plan," Chuck spat.

"You can't help it. It's who you are."

It was as if she had studied the same script that Harold had. And suddenly Chuck found himself without the only justification he'd had for staying here. They were here again: she was throwing away what they'd had so easily. Only now there was more to lose. Only now there was everything to lose. Humphrey would have liked the irony. It would have made a great fucking story.

"So that's it? You're dismissing me?"

"I'm doing you a favour," she said flatly. "Now you can go back to doing what you like."

This couldn't be happening. "And what will you do, Waldorf? Nate and Serena are together again, so you can't go running back to him."

Blair looked down, her eyes inadvertently travelling down her leg, contemplating the long, arduous process that awaited her. And for his part, Chuck imagined the vast, empty expanse of his own life if Blair left it.

"I'll go back to being Blair Waldorf."

So that was it then. "Fine. Get well soon, Waldorf," he spat, desperately wanting to hurl himself at her feet and beg her to give him a chance to be different – he could be anything she wanted. He would follow her to Yale, like a puppy, like a servant. But, of course, his pride wouldn't allow him to. Without another word, he threw open the door and felt a spark of grim triumph as it impacted against the wall.

As he stomped down the hall, leaving the door wide open behind him, he felt the irresistible urge to lash out at something. With a sort of growl, he kicked the wall of the hallway, grimacing at the pain in his foot, but relishing the scared looks the people around him.

"Charles - " Harold began, his eyes wide at the sight of the boy's mutinous expression.

But before he could even finish his sentence, Chuck threw his arms wide, bowling passed him. "You win," he spat. "You fucking win."

Harold was surprised that he felt no thrill of victory at the news.

[1] I included a similar sentiment in my one-shot _Blair._ It just seemed so true when I wrote it there that I thought I could be forgiven for transplanting it here.

A/N: **Chapter Seventeen** will still pick up in the middle of the twenty-four hours preceding the first scene in this chapter – as always, the chapter would have been too long if I tried to put everything in.


	17. Chapter 17: Between the Shadow

A/N: As I mentioned last chapter, this was going to be part of a longer chapter, but the sheer size of it got a bit ridiculous. So I assure you that Blair's motives would have been explored more in the previous chapter if I hadn't decided that it was getting to be monstrous in it's size. And of course, I can't keep C/B apart for long! Anyway, when I write **That Night** in this chapter, it may be useful to read the opening the **Chapter Sixteen**, to refresh your memory about where we're up to in this story.

**Chapter Seventeen:**** Between the Shadow and the Soul **

_I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz_

_or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:_

_I love you as certain dark things are loved,_

_secretly, between the shadow and the soul._

_I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries_

_hidden within itself the light of those flowers,_

_and thanks to your love, darkly in my body_

_lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth._

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,_

_I love you simply, without problems or pride:_

_I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving_

_but this, in which there is no I or you,_

_so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,_

_so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close._

**Pablo Neruda, "Sonnet XVII" **

When Chuck propelled himself out of the door to her hospital room, and Blair felt the morbid thrill that came with being at last entirely alone, she was visited by a memory so intense and real that it felt as if she were living again for the first time.

She had been held up by Eleanor at a family dinner she hadn't wanted to attend in the first place. She had hated to leave Chuck alone with only the spectral presence of Lily to keep him company and had wanted Eric to stay home so that they could have an impromptu boys' night in. But, Eric had recently started dating a Dalton prefect, and was too taken up by the dewy romanticism of a new romance to want to sit around with his family.

"I'll be back as soon as possible," Blair promised as she snaked her arms around Chuck's neck from where she sat on his lap. "I'll skip dessert."

"Dessert is the best part," he protested, leaving a trail of feather-light kisses down her neck.

"If you keep kissing me like that I'll skip the entrée, the main and the dessert," Blair whispered.

"You'll meet Eleanor for a nightcap," he whispered, lifting her chin.

They'd smiled at each other, but even as he joked, his arms loosened around her so she could leave. Time was marching on, and Blair almost felt foolish being so angst-ridden over leaving him. She had expected this immoderate love for him to subside with time, but each whispered confidence only made her want to discover more of him: to truly plunge into the depths of him.

She knew he felt the same way, so she wasn't hurt when he rolled her eyes and picked up his book. "I spent seventeen years waiting for you, I'm sure I can survive a few hours more."

"Please," she rolled her eyes. "When were you ever without female companionship even before we got together?"

"I was waiting for you," he insisted. "Even if I didn't know it yet."

The look on his face almost convinced her to stay. Even though she knew she couldn't, even if she was short with her mother and declined coffee in order to rush back to his side. But when the elevator doors opened, she found herself dawdling, taking a moment to enjoy the anticipation of finding him alone. It became a sort of game to her, finding him, guessing what he was doing, what he was wearing, what expression he wore when he was convinced he was alone.

He had tucked himself away in his father's study, sitting on the couch in the study and reading a book with such an intense focus that Blair positively ached with her sense of his beauty. A part of her almost resented him for hiding the beautiful curve of his cheek and the slant of his eye away in a back room. But as her eyes travelled down the curve of his shoulders and the sprinkling of dark hairs on his exposed arms, she felt a wave of possessive panic. If only they could be alone like this forever. Or better – that she could watch him as if from a great height, for as long as he would allow her.

Of course, he sensed her standing there. With the sort of gentle smile that can only be given out at night, after the rest of the household has given in to sleep, he looked her up and down in the dim light.

"You're back."

He always said it with a sort of pleasant surprise that made her heart soar and her eyes tingle with the innocent relief that underpinned the simple phrase. Part of her would exult in the fact that her simple presence could bring him such an unadorned, honest pleasure. But the feeling was always underpinned with a deep-seated grief that he had known so many disappointments in his young life: that many times people had left him without returning.

Heart aching, she threw off her high shoes – and with them, the face she showed anyone outside of this room – and lay down on the couch so that her head was in his lap. From her strange vantage point, she traced her fingers over his chin, breathing in the smell of the light cashmere sweater he had pulled over his shirt. For a while, they lay there while he stroked her hair and he continued reading his book. As always, he sensed her mood, knowing that she needed not to speak for a while, perhaps sensing that there had been a row with her mother.

"Listen to this," he said, reading aloud. "_The only way to deal with an unfree world is to be so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion_."

"Camus?"

"Camus," he agreed. "It's a great line."

Blair would have loved to luxuriate in the silence that followed, enjoying the feeling of his soft hands sending shivers down to her shoulders. But something in the sentiment disturbed her, so that she sat up, making him thrown and breaking the peaceful equilibrium of their moments of solitude.

"What do you like about it?" she frowned.

He started with the loss of contact, and as always, he recoiled from her slightly. Her easy affection had forced him to overcome many of the aversions he had to non-sexual closeness, but she had found in the process that while he had come to enjoy her affection – come to seek it out for himself – he would always react badly to having it taken suddenly away. When she moved away without warning, he always developed a kind of boyish look on his face. Sensing his hesitation, she reached out for the back of his neck and drew light circles on it, still frowning at him.

"I think it's true," he shrugged. "But I've never thought to put it in words – and I don't think I could have put it like that. I think that the human mind strives towards freedom."

"And it will rebel against anything that takes that freedom away?" Blair asked quietly.

"Exactly."

"But doesn't a relationship take away your freedom?"

When their relationship had just began, before their friendship group once more rearranged itself and split the Non-Judging Breakfast Club in two, Dan and Nate had traded jokes about how unschooled Chuck was in the ways of relationships. They had always commented on his "rookie errors". What they really meant was that Chuck had not learnt to appease Blair the way they had their respective girlfriends; Chuck may have been occasionally cruel and often emotionally reclusive, but he had the most finely attuned sense of social interaction that Blair had ever come across. He didn't balk at talking about these things with her; it was only when his sense of his own pride was threatened that he would lash out.

So now, at a time when Nate or Dan would be holding up DANGER signs and generally advising him to "bail out, bail out", Chuck merely frowned to himself and thought for a moment.

"I suppose that in some ways relationships do take away freedom," he admitted carefully. "Which is why for most of my life I didn't want anything to do with them. I thought that caring about another person would only weigh me down."

Blair pulled her hand away in spite of herself, finding herself struck by one of those moments of insecurity that came upon her sometimes, when the idea that she was so different to all those women who had crossed Chuck's path before her was simply incomprehensible. She would wonder, in moments like these, whether she was deluded. Whether the moments of towering romance that she felt when she simply watched him from the door of his father's study was nothing more than childish daydreams.

Stealing a glance at him, she was surprised by the fact he wasn't looking at her at all. He was staring intently at the fireplace, even though it was cold and barren. For a while they sat in silence, until finally Chuck smiled to himself and hung his head slightly.

"But that's the thing, isn't it? We don't weigh each other down. Or if we do, it feels different."

Still feeling needy, Blair stared at his profile. "How does it feel different?"

Finally he turned to face her smiling crookedly at his own sentimentality. "Because when you're not around I feel too light. Like I might disappear. I'm only really on earth when you're holding onto me. It's the perfect weight to keep me on the ground. And you can only grow roots when you're feet are on the ground."

She offered him a half smile, once more certain that she wasn't delusional, regaining her faith in them, but needing him to reassure her. "Don't you miss the sky?"

The space between them seemed to disappear and suddenly his lips were right next to hers. Sometimes he fell into these moods: when his speech was full of meaning, rich with imagery, when he spoke with a wide sweep of romanticism. "I can still see it. You just don't let me get lost in it. Because that'd be unbearable, I think."

"An unbearable lightness," Blair teased, until world and sky disappeared and there was only the two of them.

She wasn't sure why this memory came to her then; it was so painful to look at. But, as it replayed before her as if projected onto the wall of her hospital room, she felt a grim certainty that something profound had shifted since they'd had this conversation. From the moment she had woken to find the surface of her body irrevocably changed, she had felt the weight pulling her down. The rushing sound around her ears must have been the sound of water; she was drowning before her parent's eyes. And she would never drag Chuck down with her.

It would have been a decision incomprehensible to any who knew them, but Blair assured herself it was the right decision. Even if he hated her. Even if he lost himself in the dark sky without her grounding him. Even if the soil closed above her head.

Now that she had completed the task she had set for herself, she wanted to lay here in the dark and be numb as the tears snuck out from the corner of her eyes and ran down her cheeks. But, of course the world would not allow her to rest, and before she had time to draw breath against the tremendous pressure she felt building in her chest, she heard movements at her door.

Opening her eyes to see the bland artwork that graced the grey wall of her hospital wall, she tried to ignore the tentative intrusion of Serena.

"You're awake," she said quietly.

"So they tell me," Blair said flatly. "What are you doing in here?"

"I was appointed – to see whether you're okay." Serena paused as Blair grimaced. "Are you okay?" [1]

"Oh I'm just great," Blair said in a choked voice.

There was a long pause, during which Blair wished that Serena would evaporate and Serena became acutely aware that she was in no way forgiven for her desertion.

"I saw Chuck leave," Serena said slowly, easing into it. "He seemed pretty upset."

"Oh," Blair whispered.

Damn Serena and her questions. Why couldn't she just leave Blair to her dark room and the bland artwork that was now wavering in her vision?

"Did you…tell him to leave?"

"Yes."

"Blair," Serena asked quietly, unable to comprehend her friend's thinking. If she'd had a man even a quarter as devoted to _her_ she never would have sent…although no. That wasn't true. She had left Dan behind without so much as a word. "Why did you do that?"

For a while, she was silent. And then, in a quiet but resigned voice, Blair sighed. "Because I love him. And I don't want him to have to watch me lie in this hospital bed and learn how to walk. I don't want him to feel trapped. I would rather send him away than make him…" [2]

"Make him…?"

Blair finally turned her head to face Serena, her eyes brimming with tears. "Make him unhappy."

She knew that Blair was entirely wrong, that this was a mistake, but she knew that her relationship with Blair was not quite at the point when she could weigh in. She really had no idea what had elapsed in the month that they had spent together, but by the sounds of things, Blair had made some quasi-spiritual pact to guard Chuck from harm. Although Serena said nothing, outside of patting Blair's hand gently as she cried, she knew that Blair wasn't just acting in Chuck's best interests. She knew that Blair hated to be weak, hated to be seen when she was vulnerable. And most of all, hated the thought of people leaving her.

So, for the moment, Serena was silent. But as she contemplated Chuck fleeing from the hospital into the dark night, she realized that not making Blair see the error of her ways might have been the worst thing she had ever done to her best friend.

It was probably a sign of the inherent unpredictability of Eric's life that when the door to the Van Der Woodsen penthouse slammed he had no earthly idea who it could be. When he was older and had his own family, Eric was determined that he and his partner would keep a whiteboard with their locations at all times, so that everyone was accounted for. Or maybe he needed one of those clocks that the Weasleys had in _Harry Potter_, where each member of the family was featured on an individual arm of the clock, which pointed out what state they were in, ranging from "at work" to "in deathly period".

Eric pulled a robe around himself and headed to the kitchen, where there was a strange sound of rattling and running water. When he entered, he was shocked to see the last person he expected performing the last task he would have expected him to perform.

"Chuck," Eric asked incredulously. "Are you doing the dishes?"

"No, I'm dividing the atom," Chuck responded flatly.

His shoulders were hunched in concentration as he filled the basin with water, without even thinking to put in detergent and pulled on bright pink gloves. Without so much as turning around, he began rubbing at the pots that Eric had left in the sink earlier for the maid service to take care of. Although Chuck refused to turn around and look at him, Eric had the feeling that his eyes would be red.

"Sarcasm, got it," Eric muttered, taking a seat on the counter behind Chuck's back. "Care to explain why you're doing the dishes?"

"I needed something to focus on."

Eric frowned, picking at the fruit in the bowl, wondering whether it was actually real or merely a false attempt at warm decorating. Eyeing Chuck from behind, he wondered how to approach the situation; Chuck was never the easiest person to read.

"How's Blair?"

For the longest time, Chuck froze, with his hands still in the basin, picking at the dirty casserole dish. Eric realized fondly that Chuck hadn't even used hot water. Far from cleaning the dishes, he had in fact managed only to dirty the sink. Eric was so preoccupied with his affection for his brother that it took him a moment to comprehend what Chuck said next.

"She broke up with me."

Dropping the pear he had been holding, Eric gaped at Chuck's back. "You can't be serious."

He offered a low, pained chuckle. "Seriously. It's been an evening of _sur-pris-es_," he said, drawing out the syllables.

"And," Eric said hesitantly. "Are you okay?"

His simple question could have been the starting gun for a boxing match, because the moment he posed it, Chuck lifted up the metal tray he was pretending to clean and threw it with all his might back down into the water-filled sink below. Finally, he turned around to face Eric, who almost recoiled at the sight of his twisted face, his flaring nostrils, his red cheeks. For a moment, Eric was almost scared that Chuck was going to take a swing at him, still wearing those ridiculous pink gloves.

"Am I _okay_?" he spat furiously. "No, _Eric_, I'm not ok-_ay_."

Eric barely flinched as he shouted in his face. "So what are you going to do about it?"

Mindless of the specks of dirt he was rubbing into his chest, Chuck tapped a closed fist over his heart. "Have you not been listening to me? She broke up with me. She told me to fuck off."

Eric raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. "I refuse to believe that Blair Waldorf, having just woke up from surgery suddenly decided that she was no longer madly in love with you."

"Unless she was never in love to begin with," Chuck growled before prowling over to the scotch that sat on a silver tray next to Eric and pouring himself a drink, gloves and all.

"Be serious. Stop play-acting. I don't believe that Blair is serious. _You _don't believe that Blair's serious. She's constructed this whole situation for another reason, and you know her better than anyone. So you tell me, why is she doing it?"

Chuck paused, staring into the crystal glass he was drinking from. Suddenly, he looked off to the side, narrowing his eyes and running his tongue over the teeth in his closed mouth.

"There it is," Eric said, satisfied.

"There _what _is?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Whenever you decide something, when you realize something – you do the exact same look. You look off to the side, you narrow your eyes, and you run your tongue over your teeth."

"Sound kind of like I'm just having a stroke."

"A stroke of genius," Eric deadpanned camply.

"Fag," Chuck said warmly.

"Pussy," Eric responded with a grin. "So what was it?"

Chuck shrugged, putting his glass down. "It's just a thought. Truth is that Blair is a crazy bitch who may defy explanation and rationality."

Eric settled him with a stern look. "What was it?"

"When…Bart died," Chuck said quietly. "I just sort of – I mean you know how it is – how it was. I just wanted to push everyone away. I wanted to be alone, just to prove it to myself that no one cared."

"I get it," Eric said, gently. "When Serena heard about my attempted suicide" – Chuck always admired how Eric never skirted around the event, but called it what it was - "Serena rang in a typically Serena state and asked me whether I wanted her to come home. I said no. I told her that it was too late to be a sister to me. I told her to just continue living her life and forget all about me."

"You obviously got the point across effectively," Chuck mocked lightly.

Eric shrugged. "I am so glad she ignored me. She got on the next train. Some of us lean on people when we're down. Serena's like that. She can cry it out. But the rest of us – people like you, like me, and like Blair. We push people away as hard as we can, just to see if they come back."

"But what if this isn't that? What if Blair isn't happy for me to just barge back in?"

He was only ever this forthright with Eric. Ever since the first night they spent drinking in Chuck's suite, they'd had an understanding that transcended Chuck's relationship with Serena. Chuck could scarcely remember, in light of all the scorched earth between him and the Van Der Woodsens, how excited he had been to finally have a family, even one that was grafted on top of his own. The look of admiration in Eric's eyes had filled Chuck with an inarticulate kind of longing. And so he had been determined to impress the kid, who, it turned out, was destined to do nothing but impress Chuck.

That first night, after the requisite joking around and rounds of poker, Chuck had been appraising Eric carefully.

"Why did you do it?" he asked finally.

"What?"

Chuck grabbed his wrist, exposing the scar that he tried so hard to hide. "Why did you do it?"

He remembered how Eric had looked down at his lap, before giving him a half smile. "You're the keen observer of the human condition. You tell me."

He'd read his audience well; Chuck loved to play the game of human analysis. Holding his scotch up to the light, Chuck had examined the amber liquid.

"Your unreliable sister had just dickered off to Fuckville, USA, leaving you entirely alone in a household run by a woman so terrified of self-reflection that she'd marry the family dog if it promised not to look too closely at her. And you found out that all the reasons that you felt bad were so inconsequential that your mother didn't even notice that you were acting out of the ordinary." Chuck paused, staring at his soon-to-be stepbrother through his glass. "So you did it for attention, basically."

Eric nodded, with that same half-smile, pretending that Chuck's words didn't sting. "Basically."

But it didn't end there. With the relaxed and catlike grace that Eric would always associate with his brother, Chuck leant forward onto his knees, balancing his drink. "That, and you were afraid to tell anyone that you wanted to fuck men."

There. That moment. The secret that Eric had never told anyone. All other moments of exposure Eric could withstand, but to hear his deepest secret expressed so crudely by a boy who, apart from being his future step-brother was also one of the most powerful figures in his school. If Chuck wanted, he could drop this bomb from his lofty heights and destroy Eric's life for no other reason than he was bored and it was fifth period. He could scarcely breathe.

"How did you know?"

"I pay attention," his mouth curved into that familiar smirk, and for a moment Eric had wanted to hit him. "It's all in the eyes. The way you look at me is different to the way you look at…say…Blair Waldorf."

Eric wanted to deny it furiously. Although, honestly, Chuck's close proximity and reputation as a lothario had inspired a series of fierce and furtive fantasies that should have remained a secret forever. He was almost shaking with the thought that in a moment's time Chuck would order him out of the suite, out of his life – call him some names. "T-t-that's not true," he stuttered.

Chuck had simply raised an eyebrow. "Come on, Eric. Do I look like I care?"

"You're not going to tell anyone?" Eric had whispered.

"No." Eric suspected that even Chuck was surprised by his own answer. "But tell me, do you think that I ever apologise for who I want to do?"

It would not be the first time that Eric raised an eyebrow and saw right through him. "Oh is that right? Then do you want to tell my why Blair Waldorf was the first name that sprang to mind just then."

"Blow me," Chuck had said with a scowl.

"With pleasure," Eric had joked, blushing furiously at his own audacity, and feeling a swell of relief when Chuck had laughed and poured him another drink.

And ever since that night, they had been in tacit agreement that they would be exempt from the lies they told other people. That their relationship would be a space of honesty in lives otherwise coloured by deceit.

Since then, Eric had learnt to understand real emotions, at least when it came to Chuck. He had had learnt to discern between Chuck's affectations and affections. What he had seen between Blair and Chuck over the passed few months was real. This display that was acting itself out before him – that was falsehood.

"Tell me, Chuck," he said quietly. "What are you worth?"

Chuck shrugged dismissively. "Roughly twenty billion, I suppose, depending on Bass Industries' performance this quarter and what the real estate value - "

Eric chuckled, interrupting him. "That's wrath of God money, to be sure [3], but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about what you're worth, what you have that is valuable to you."

"You," he said quickly. "This family. Humphrey and Vanessa, I suppose."

"And?"

"Blair," he said, and it sounded as if it had been an exhalation, as if breath had been replaced by her name.

"And do you honestly believe – putting aside whatever she said tonight – do you really believe that Blair doesn't feel the same way?"

Chuck paused for a minute, before shaking his head. "Her father hates me."

"So you're going to let him win?"

His cheek twitched. "She's leaving for New Haven soon. What will we do when she's at Yale?"

"Chuck," Eric said slowly. "These are big questions for you and Blair, but all of them are questions you have to answer together. This is one of the few moments when there is only one question that needs to be answered: are you in love with her?"

Some people may have answered that question in the most colourful language, or in primary colours. Some men may have rattled off the reasons behind their love – the exact moment when they realized how they felt. But for Chuck, loving Blair was a fact of life, as essential and unremarkable as inhaling and exhaling to stay alive.

"Yes."

Eric nodded, suddenly moved by the simplicity and complexity of his statement. It needed no further explanation. "And do you want things to end?"

"No."

"Then tell her that you respectfully decline her break-up." [4]

Chuck let out a loud bark of a laugh. "You want me to tell her I respectfully decline?"

Eric blushed beet red. "What? There is nothing funny about respect."

Chuck laughed again, but he seemed to be thinking, so Eric leant forward and patted the top of his gloved hand. "Listen, don't go back there tonight. Go have a shower, get changed. Go to sleep. And then in the morning go there calm and certain and tell Blair – well you don't need my help with that. You always know what to say to her."

"I think you're giving me too much credit," Chuck said. "I don't think I've ever known the right thing to say to Blair."

"There's no right thing," Eric protested. "There's just things that are real and things that are delusions. Things that are worth fighting for and the things we just have to let go. I know I'm younger than you, but I have seen more of you and Blair than anyone else. What you have with her is worth every dollar in your bank account."

Chuck cracked a smile, nodding slightly at Eric's words. "Can I at least keep some of the artworks?"

"Get out of here. Go bathe."

"I'm just saying that there are some prize pieces in there that I may like to keep if she rejects me twenty billion times."

"Get out of here," Eric said, rolling his eyes as Chuck shuffled down the hall, tiredness overcoming him. "But Chuck," he called. "Maybe you want to think about taking the gloves off now?"

They landed halfway down the hall when Chuck threw them at him.

When morning came, Blair awoke to find herself in a more acute type of pain than she had ever encountered before. It wasn't just the physical pain – although it felt like she had been hit by, well, a car – but also a crushing feeling of emptiness.

_You got what you wanted,_ she reminded herself. _Chuck's free and you're alone._

The hours stretched long and lonely, and more than once Blair found herself with her face angled away the light that streamed in through the window. It was easier to angle towards the darkness of the artificial light. Outside was a threatening and confusing world, where people had lives, and life had no role in Blair's reality at the moment. It was safer to remember a life that had passed by with so little examination.

And so she scrutinised every inch of the life that had been so rudely interrupted that evening outside the Palace. It had been the happiest time of her life, and yet she had cast off the potential for happiness, knowing that romance died with twisted metal. And so she took a morbid pleasure in examining the substance of her time with Chuck. It took her mind off her mangled leg and the scars that had already began to form on her knee and at the side of her mouth.

After Chuck had left her room – or rather, she had forced him out the door – she had felt a grim satisfaction. It was as if she was proven right by his acquiescence. Although it was unfair, a part of her felt victorious. _Some fight he gave_ [5], the mean-spirited voice intimated. Although even as she thought it, she knew she was being unfair. Chuck was always much too fast to accept the worst opinions of those around him. She had been playing into his own security, and according to Serena, who had sat awkwardly at the base of her bed, repeatedly biting her tongue from commenting on Chuck's angry exit, he had been here for days without sleeping or showering.

She had fought against his closeness, feeling too unsightly for her lover's eyes, thinking also that he had suffered enough and deserved someone spun from perfection rather than someone who could barely move from her hospital bed. Eventually, the cruel voice in her mind whispered, he would have deserted her. The way her mother and father always did. Even though they were trying as hard as they could to make up for their past mistakes with constant affection and an almost suffocating presence.

Chuck would never imagine, she mused, how he filled her every thought. He never entered her mind without consuming it. Having sent him away, she remembered him in any number of ways, he fascinated her; he walked through her mind and claimed the scene.

Even the slightest movement could spark a memory. She saw a sharp conversation pass between Eleanor and Harold: an icy sort of glare and a sharp word just outside her hospital room, out of her hearing. And strangely, something in her father's face reminded her of Chuck; it was the stony look he gave Eleanor as she said something arch and undoubtedly acidic in an undertone she couldn't discern. She had seen the same look on Chuck's face when he was being scolded by Bart, when he had done something wrong and there was no denying it.

It was years ago, now, when Blair was busy organising some fundraiser or other, which caused her to stay late after school most days a week. She hadn't seen Chuck for days, but Nate had hinted at some most recent scandal involving drugs, amateur photographic equipment, a hooker from the meatpacking district, and more than one freshman. She hadn't liked Nate's tone when he spoke of Chuck's latest indiscretion. There was something admiring in it. Those brief moments when she felt something rippling within Nate that she could scarcely identify, let alone name – it was then that she realized that her perfect man was a person in his own right. Full of secrets. And part of her had formulated some hackneyed theory that Chuck was leading him astray. Now, of course, she realized that she had been naïve to think it was that simple. The relationship Nate had with Chuck was more than mere rebellion; Chuck was the reprobate that lived within Nate's character. Nate was Nate, simply because Chuck took care of everything else.

She had no idea, at that time that the love of her life was masquerading as her boyfriend's best friend.

The school was different after hours, when only a few lights were on. Blair relished the feeling of being alone in the schoolhouse, with her arms full of plans. It made her feel committed and industrious. She enjoyed the feeling of staying late, of being necessary. Although her mother would probably not be home when she returned, she could go to bed with that comforting creed still well in place: fortune favours the dogged; Waldorf women are workers; life is a serious business, so don't waste time with fun. These family creeds had only become more insistent when her father disappeared from her life and her mother took it upon herself to transform her mother-daughter bonding sessions into Life Lessons.

Convinced that she was all but alone in this building, Blair had allowed her guard to drop, her eyes to lower, and even her chin was held at a less haughty angle than usual. So, when she rounded a corner to find Chuck sitting on a wooden chair next to the principal's office, she had been blindsided, thrown, and had even took a few steps back, determined to hide from one of her oldest friends.

A traitorous hand reached up to fix her hair. It must have been because her guard was down. What did it matter if Chuck Bass thought her hair was messy? She was being ridiculous, hiding like this. She peeked around the corner. He was still there, with no sign that he was aware of her presence.

It was an odd sort of look for Chuck. Usually he was not one for the uncontrolled movement, and yet Blair watched as one of his legs jiggled up and down as he sat on the lonely chair. The movement may have been unintentional; one of his hands was placed on his knee, as if trying to still it. The other formed a tight fist, covering his mouth. From her hiding spot, Blair noticed that a small patch of fading sunlight was straining towards his leather shoes. But it died before reaching him, and he was entirely in the dark.

"I am glad we have an agreement, Mr. Collins," came the detached, gravely voice of Bart Bass.

"Yes…well…I trust that Charles will be shown the error of his ways," the old Headmaster said uncertainly.

"Of that you should have no doubt," Bart said calmly as Chuck continued to examine the blank wall in front of him.

Blair was a little surprised when Chuck broke the silence first; he was usually a master at power play. Perhaps he was hurrying things along. "Were you able to convince Mr. Collins to reconsider the expulsion?" he asked flatly.

Expulsion? Had it really been that bad? Nate had downplayed it, obviously. He had made it seem like nothing. Chuck had probably told him the story over drinks in his suite, had probably smirked over it, before shrugging in that nonchalant way of his. No one would have been able to tell that he was terrified.

Or maybe it was even worse than Blair imagined; maybe Chuck honestly didn't care.

"It was nearly beyond my influence," Bart replied, just as coolly.

Chuck still avoided his eyes. "Suspension?"

"Three days."

A heavy pause. Blair wondered whether it was possible that Chuck's father was a robot. He emoted that little. Chuck may have been a master at hiding his feelings, but there was nothing dead about him: he was constantly in motion. Bart just stood there, looking for all the world like an automaton. Then, he merely nodded to himself before making his way towards Blair's hiding place in the adjacent hallway.

"Aren't you going to ask me if I've seen the error of my ways?" Chuck asked. Blair shook her head in amazement at his gall. There was something so fatalistic about Chuck's way. He couldn't resist throwing himself to the wild beasts. He climbed into the enclosure. He never balked at destroying himself. It was beautiful, in a way – Blair thought it even then. His solemn face was somehow beautiful to her. He seemed brave, sitting there on that bench, not even standing up to full height, asking his father to have a go at him.

"What would be the point, Chuck?"

"To see whether I can be a functioning member of society," Chuck drawled.

"Why would I ask you a question I already know the answer to?"

And there was Chuck, still determined to be clawed to death. "So what's the verdict?"

Bart never rushed his responses. Every word was measure and exact. A pound of flesh, no more, no less. His voice dripped with disdain. "Is it possible that this latest display was a…quest…for attention? Is it possible that you've disappointed me once again because you didn't think I've been paying enough attention to you?"

Chuck looked at his feet. "That's not why I did it," he said, almost petulantly.

"Then why did you do it?" Bart said in a cool voice.

Chuck suddenly stood up, turning around to face his father, his arms crossed. He started to speak a few times, but it seemed that words escaped him. It was a brief but intense internal struggle, and Blair saw when his shoulders tightened that honesty had not been the victor. "I don't know."

"You never do," Bart spat. "So it seems that I wasted yet another afternoon on you."

"I suppose so," Chuck said quietly, his jaw working.

With that, father and son walked in opposite directions. It was only then that Blair realized that in minutes Chuck would be upon her. Running away was too humiliating, and there was a chance that he would see her go and mock her mercilessly. So the safest option was to let the shadows obscure her, to stand very still and hope that he didn't notice her. The plan seemed to be working, because Chuck had already walked passed her, leaving her scrutinizing his back, when he suddenly stopped dead.

"Enjoy the show, Waldorf?" Chuck asked quietly, without facing her.

"I suppose you knew I was there the entire time," she said stiffly.

She was still speaking to his back, staring at the satin back of his waistcoat. She could never be certain, but she thought he might have smiled at that point. "Of course."

There was no dignity in hiding. Squaring her shoulders, she strode passed him, allowing him to follow after her as they walked in step towards the exit. When he opened the heavy oak doors of the entrance to their brother and sister schools, she noted that the sun had finally set. It was hour when night time came – the hour she had always associated with Chuck.

It seemed appropriate to say something. "Are you okay?"

Chuck looked inordinately offended at her gentle tone. He was suddenly aware of his collapsed posture. Straightening up, his eyes settled on her face. "Don't _look_ at me like that," Chuck said stiffly, before stepping down the stairs. Not quite knowing what to do, Blair followed him silently until they reached the wrought iron gates.

"How was I looking at you?" Blair asked, when they exited the building. She was still staring at his profile.

He pulled out a silver cigarette holder – always cinematic, always with a dash of the debonair about him. Serena always rolled her eyes about how affected his habits were; how he seemed like a caricature of a nineteenth century gentleman. In those innocent, dreaming days when they had all been the best of friends, before the dynamics of their little group had shifted, they would sit in Chuck's suite in the Palace, watching Serena try on his velvet smoking jacket. She would turn around to them, striking a pose.

"_What_ are you wearing?"

"I'm _Chuck Bass_," Serena would drawl, causing Nate and Blair to fall about laughing.

At most, Chuck would offer a tight smile. "I'd rather girls take my clothes off more than try them on."

Perhaps it was Blair's imagination, but it seemed that there was a strange, tight quality to his smiles at those moments. Serena would pass back the jacket, or bowtie, ruffling his hair with that easy affection of hers, instantly forgetting about her jokes. She and Nate would have moved on to some new game, always wanting something _more_ exciting, _more_ amusing, something new. But Blair would watch Chuck as he put his jacket away, with an inscrutable expression on his face.

He would do up the buttons with such care, ensuring that they were perfect, before hanging it in its rightful place. And as he smoothed down the lapels, Blair would feel a swoop of sympathy; she would be filled with remorse about laughing at him. Because there was no one outside of this room that viewed him as anything more than a caricature of himself. _Chuck Bass_: and all the debauchery and posturing that being Chuck Bass entailed. It was not Serena's fault, really. Chuck always played his character to perfection.

All of these props of his, they were the entire substance of who he was. It was amazing, really, how insubstantial Chuck's life was. There was no family, really, no future outside of the promise of an evening's entertainment. There was nothing, really, but beautiful accessories and a famous last name.

Serena didn't mean anything by it, throwing his identity over her shoulders – and they all knew that Chuck loved to play host to those three people he so fiercely guarded. But, Blair couldn't shake the feeling that Chuck wished it were as simple as shrugging off a jacket. To cast aside his identity and put it on a coat hanger.

He would be lost for a moment, and Blair would feel a twinge of panic at the sight of him being swept away.

"Honestly Bass," she'd whinge. "What does a girl have to do to get a refill around here?"

It was a strange thing, that her bitchy voice could shake him from his reverie, and replace the smirk on his features.

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

So, when he lit that cigarette on the sidewalk, with a brief flare of orange light playing across his face, Blair couldn't help but think he was being pulled away again. He took his time in answering her question; Chuck was always unhurried.

"Don't look at me like you feel sorry for me," he said, finally.

She could have denied it. But suddenly, she was annoyed at him. She was annoyed at the tragic air he carried about with him. She was annoyed that he was so needlessly self-destructive. She was annoyed that he could have been expelled and never would have gotten around to telling her. She was annoyed that he stood in his own way.

"Then stop feeling sorry for yourself," she said cattily before hastening down the stairs before she said too much and gave herself away.

As the doctor extended and contracted her unbroken leg, she bit her lip. "Yes, it must be a little stiff," the man said mechanically.

It wasn't the pain of movement as much as it was the pain of knowing that she would have done well to have the same advice she had thrown at him given to her.

As if Blair's thought had summoned her, Vanessa materialized at the door, with her arms crossed and a severe look on her face.

"Blair," she said gently, but seriously.

Blair snapped at the doctor to go and find her another blanket, as if that was his job. He mumbled something about the dangers of blood clots and the importance of mobility before he disappeared to do her bidding. Soon enough, they were alone.

Blair found herself closing her eyes to avoid Vanessa's all-seeing eye. "Did you at least bring flowers to go with the lecture your about to give me?"

Vanessa's face didn't soften, even though her mouth quirked. "I see that getting hit by a car hasn't dampened your wit."

"No, it's just rearranged my face," Blair said coolly.

When Vanessa said nothing, Blair opened her eyes to find the other girl examining her features carefully. "It's not so bad, you know. Your face will be back to normal in no time."

"Easy for you to say," Blair muttered, looking at Vanessa's smooth brown skin and green eyes. She had never really paused to notice how attractive her friend was, and for a moment, she felt the same thrilling hatred that sometimes came upon her when she regarded Serena. Vanessa was probably closer to Chuck's type than Serena. Even as she thought it, she scolded herself for her bitterness. Would she never stop until every person in her life was turned away? She realized with a start that she didn't want to be without Vanessa – she was a connexion to Chuck. In spite of herself, Blair gestured at the chair next to her hospital bed, which Vanessa gratefully sat in.

"Get it off your chest, V," Blair said eventually. "Let me have it."

Vanessa hesitated, knowing full well that Blair had quite a temper. "Can I speak freely?"

Blair raised an eyebrow. "You mean you've been censoring yourself this whole time? Say what you want. It's not like I can go anywhere."

Vanessa took a deep breath. "I'm sorry this happened to you, Blair. And I know that you're in pain and feeling angry at the world. But I think you need to get over yourself."

"Excuse me?"

"Cut the Upper East Side debutante bullshit," Vanessa snapped. "I mean, really, Blair? You actually broke up with Chuck?"

Blair realized, even as she felt her own ire rising, that it was a sign of her closeness with Vanessa that she felt at liberty to speak this way. Serena had been guilty, bumbling, sitting there and offering to plait Blair's hair, as if she could lift her head high enough to the other girl to do it. But Vanessa refused to treat her as an invalid. Blair pulled herself up slightly, grimacing at the ripping pain that ran down her leg. Swallowing the pain, she regarded Vanessa stonily. "Yes I did. What of it?"

Vanessa breathed through her teeth. "Well that was possibly the stupidest thing you've ever done."

Blair glared at her. "What the hell do you know about _anything_?"

"I know that he was the only person who never left this hospital," Vanessa retorted. "Your parents did. Serena and Nate did. But not Chuck. He sat here the whole time because he couldn't stand to be anywhere else. And what is this whole 'I just want him to be happy' bit?"

"It's the truth," Blair said stubbornly.

"It's crap, and you know it. Chuck never even knew what happiness was before he fell in love with you. Don't insult my intelligence with that bull. Tell me the real reason you broke up with him."

"You don't understand," Blair said softly, avoiding Vanessa's eyes. "I don't want him to leave me. Or worse – to stay with me but to hate me for weighing him down."

"So you sent him away before he had the chance to leave you?" Vanessa asked, as Blair looked away. "Well I think you're wrong."

"He could have anyone – absolutely anyone," Blair said simply. "What on earth is he going to do with _me_ when he could have anyone?"

Vanessa sighed, leaning back at the chair and looking at the way Blair's swollen cheek was twisted with grief. The bruises were already going down, but her mangled leg remained angrily red and swollen, held together by a strange boot-like contraption. "You're right Blair," she said eventually. "He probably could have anyone. But he's never wanted anyone except you. Do you know how lucky you are to know that?"

Blair cocked her head to the side, sensing that Vanessa was no longer talking about her relationship with Chuck. "Just because someone has wanted another person in the past doesn't mean they can't love you now. Look at me."

"Look at you sending the love of your life out the door?" Vanessa asked per

She grimaced. "Well don't look at me today, look at me before this mess. I used to think Nate was the most important thing in my world, until I found Chuck."

"And what happened when you found him?"

Blair closed her eyes, shrugging helplessly. "Chuck became my world."

"So what were you doing sending him away?" Vanessa asked quietly.

If she had been standing up instead of sitting, she may have fallen to her knees. Feeling a burning in her throat, and knowing that she had been wrong to send him away, Blair found herself unable to vocalise her thoughts to Vanessa. Instead, she just shook her head, letting tears fall down her cheeks, until her mother breezed in.

"What's going on here?" Eleanor asked suspiciously when she saw Blair's tears and Vanessa's silent figure.

"Nothing, Mrs. Waldorf," Vanessa said sweetly. "We were just chatting. I'll see you soon, Blair. Think about what I said, okay?"

Blair nodded. Eleanor was still suspicious as Vanessa made her way out the door and as her eyes took in Blair's over-bright eyes, she knew that it had to be something to do with Charles Bass.

When Chuck arrived at the hospital, he was amused to see Nate and Dan sitting in the waiting room, separated by two chairs and a dozing old man whose head kept falling onto Dan's shoulder. Every time it would impact on Dan's shoulder, the man would shake himself awake and apologise before repeating the entire process once more.

Each time it happened, Nate let out a derisive snort of laughter and Dan shot him a glare.

"Well isn't this a heart-warming scene," Chuck commented as he strode in.

"Chuck," Nate exclaimed, inordinately relieved. "You're back – that's really…I mean, yay!"

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "Did you just say, 'yay', Nathaniel?"

"It's just…I thought that after last night you were…you know…"

"You thought I'd found a way to alienate everyone in my life?" he asked cruelly, reminding Nate of the way he had said goodbye to his best friend before embarking on his trip.

Nate shrugged helplessly, uncertain of how to mend things between them. Matters weren't helped by Dan's obvious camaraderie with Chuck. A part of him knew that he was jealous of Dan, jealous of the way he spoke to Chuck and jealous that Serena still looked at him like she was in love with him.

"You look good, man," Dan commented, sensing the awkwardness between Nate and Chuck and noticing that the bags under his eyes had receded somewhat and that he had changed into a light blue shirt.

"It's a big day," Chuck shrugged.

"Why is that?"

"I'm respectfully declining Blair's attempt to break up with me," Chuck said smoothly.

"Wait, she actually broke up with you?" Nate spluttered. "Like she said she didn't want to be with you anymore? I thought it was just a fight."

"It doesn't matter," Chuck said matter-of-factly. "I'm going to respectfully decline."

"That's good," Dan said, impressed.

"What does that even mean?" Nate asked simultaneously, earning himself another glare from Dan.

"It means, Nathaniel, that I'm sticking round no matter what Blair says. But I'm doing it respectfully."

Nate still seemed confused. "That's probably the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"There's nothing stupid about respect," Dan snapped. "Respect for relationships especially. Respect for friends and the way they feel when you disappear with their girlfriend for a month."

"Gee, Dan," Nate muttered. "No one could possibly understand the subtext of _that _comment."

Chuck rolled his eyes at them, noticing that the old gomer had fallen asleep yet again. "Before you ladies get into a bitch-slapping fight, have either of you actually seen Blair this morning?"

Dan nodded. "She called me into her room last night, informed me that she needed me to go out to every dive bar in the city to find you before you accidentally impregnated a stripper in a fit of rage. Then she called me back in and told me not to worry about it."

Chuck couldn't help the small grin that spread over his face, surprised that he had found the strength to be amused. The truth was, he had bounded out of bed this morning. Eric had been right – especially about the restorative power of a night's sleep. Although the bed had seemed ridiculously large and empty without Blair beside him. "What about you, Archibald?"

"When I went in she had just had more painkillers," Nate admitted. "So she kind of thought I was Serena. But in the few moments she actually knew who I was, she kept asking me whether I thought you'd found someone new, yet. There was a lot of crying…and, you know…throwing stuff."

Chuck nodded before waggling a finger between them. "Okay, go back to hating each other."

"Good luck, man," Dan contributed, wiping the drool from his shoulder.

He just nodded. Despite his bravado, Chuck was incredibly nervous as he walked up the hallway. With each step, Eric's advice seemed less wise. And when he reached the door, he was within a hair's breadth of talking himself out of going in. As much as the stupid stories that Nate and Dan had told him made him feel as if it was a sure-fire thing, the reality was that Blair's dismissal of him had hurt him deeply. He knew that they were at a crossroads, one that may define their relationship. And for once, he was ready.

Before he could even knock, the door flew open and he was face-to-face with Eleanor, the last person he wanted to see right now. When she saw him, she opened her mouth to say something, before frowning and thinking better of it. Chuck wondered, for a moment, whether she would block his progress. A part of him wanted her to try. But, with an almost theatrical flourish, she stepped aside.

"Eleanor," he nodded at her.

"Charles," she replied, coolly before walking down the hall.

She had left the door open, so when he entered, there was no sound accompanying his arrival. Looking at the sad expression on her face, he thought he might break down and cry. But for some reason, seeing her with her guard down reminded him of the various times when she had pushed him away, pushed him out the door. It seemed that the blame could be evenly divided between mistakes he had made – by blogging to _Gossip Girl_ about their sex life, by leaving her on that helipad, by returning form Bangkok and living under her roof – and moments when her pride had overtaken her – with Marcus, when Dan had interfered that night when he had been convinced she was about to tell him that she loved him.

Chuck realized that if he entered this room and forced her to look at him in the eye, he would be bringing an end to their entire way of being. He would be telling her that they were a fact, that they were a reality that could not be denied – that their relationship was a non-negotiable to him. He felt a thrill of fear as he contemplated the sheer magnitude of his decision.

But, before he could talk himself out of it, she sensed his presence. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of him leaning against the doorframe. For a moment, she was uncertain whether she was honestly seeing him, or whether it was just the force of her recollections making her imagine things. She would have rubbed her eyes, if she hadn't known that he would laugh at her.

"You came back."

She had made the decision for him, he realized as he walked into the room. It was no decision at all, really. "Did you think that last night would be all it took?"

She frowned. "All it took too…?"

"To be rid of me," Chuck responded quietly.

Blair closed her eyes against the intensity of his voice. He was suddenly acutely aware of the distance between them. Their fights had always ended with passion or affection. Today would be in a different mould. This would be a negotiation with no possible physical resolution. He had, quite simply, lost his greatest weapon.

Her eyes were pressed closed when she began speaking again – picking up a conversation they had never had as if they hadn't technically broken up. "This morning a nurse was telling me about this girl who was rushed to emergency last night, after a car crash."

He stepped slightly closer, until his thighs were pressed against the metal bar next to her bed. "What happened to her?"

Blair opened her eyes, and he was struck by how clear they were, how intense her focus was. "She was paralysed. Is paralysed. She will never walk again. And you know what I thought?"

"Blair - "

"I thought," she continued loudly, drowning him out. "Thank god it was her - and not me. I thanked god that some poor girl would never walk again."

"No. You thanked god that you would."

"Not any time soon," Blair mumbled, before turning her eyes to him. "What would you have done, Chuck?"

The conversation had gone in a strange direction, but sometimes conversations like this accidentally travelled in the right direction. "What would I have done if – what?"

Blair looked down at her lap, peering at him through her eyelashes in a way that made his heart ache. "What would you have done if I had been the one paralysed? Would you be here right now?"

"Well, that depends," he swallowed. "Would you have broken up with me?"

"I'm serious."

He shrugged. "What can I say Blair? I have no idea what I would have done. For the first few hours – I mean we had no idea what the damage was. I kept running over the worst case scenarios."

"And?"

Chuck shook his head, reliving the horror of that first night. "And nothing. I don't know what I would have done. I don't know what it would have meant for our lives. But I know that it wouldn't have changed how I felt about you – for whatever that's worth."

She snorted. "Sometimes how we feel doesn't matter."

"And sometimes it's the only thing that matters."

Although she refused to concede his point, he knew that she agreed with him. Determined to change the subject, Chuck traced the metal frame of her bed, noticing the way her eyes flickered to his hand. It was as if the bed was now a part of her body. Finally, he sat on the chair next to her bed – a gesture that surprised her. Usually, Chuck would never have considered surrendering the power that came with the elevated position. It seemed, though, that for this conversation, they would be on the same level.

"What are you doing here, Chuck?"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm respectfully declining your request that we break up. Which sounded a lot less stupid when Eric said it."

"You're respectfully _declining_?" she asked with the ghost of a smile. "I don't know if that's how it works."

Chuck shrugged. "It makes a hell of a lot more sense than you telling me that we're over out of absolutely nowhere."

Her mouth worked, and her eyes travelled to the window behind him. But, Chuck wouldn't allow her to avoid his eyes. Touching her for the first time since she landed in this hospital, he placed a finger under her chin and turned it back to him, noting the way she sighed and how her eyes fluttered.

"What was that, last night?"

"That was me trying to do the right thing by you," Blair said ruefully. "That was me trying to be selfless."

"Okay," he said doubtfully. "Why did you think it was selfless?"

Blair pulled her face away form his hand, gesturing down at her leg. "Look at me Chuck. _See_ me. This is going to be long and slow and even after I learn how to walk again, there will be scars and bandages and - "

"Wait," Chuck interrupted. "You sent me away because you're worried about _scars_?"

Blair raised her chin defiantly. "That wasn't the only reason. Don't act like it's stupid."

"I can't help it," Chuck said, shaking his head. "You imagine that after all we've been through, I would leave you because you were in a car accident?"

She shrugged helplessly, surprised at the hurt look that flickered across his face. "I didn't want to give you that option."

He leant back in his chair, his eyes focused on the ground. "And do you for a moment think that if the roles were reversed that you would leave me here alone because you couldn't be bothered to be there for me? I'm asking you – do you think that if the roles were reversed you would have left me?"

"No, of course not."

"And do you really think so little of me that you'd imagine that I wouldn't do for you what you'd do for me? Is that really who you think I am?"

When he looked up, he found tears falling down her face. It was satisfying, in a way, to see her repentant look, to see the pain that he felt mirrored in her face. She was shaking her head slightly, as if simple denial would undo the deep insult she had made against his character. "Forgive me, Chuck," she whispered, hanging her head, and unconsciously reaching out towards him.

He took her hand – of course he did – even though he hadn't quite forgiven her. And even though her body lay in the most unaccommodating of positions, although it was no more than a touch of fingers, both of them felt the electricity flow down their arms. Without any particular warning, except for a flicker that gave away the nightmarish tone of the last few days, Chuck's grip on her hand tightened.

"Tell me that you want me here," he said desperately – in the voice he would have used if he had been pinning her against the wall and making love to her. "Tell me that you won't ask me to leave again."

"I do," she breathed. "I won't. All I want is for you to be here."

"Then I'm here."

Suddenly it was intolerable to be so far apart. Chuck dragged the chair across the linoleum floor so that he could bury his face in her hair, breathing in the salty smell of her skin. With less force than a butterfly's wing, he kissed her bruises, kissed her entire face. She buried her hand in his hair, wondering how she had imagined that she could be without him, even for an instant. Both of them had tears in their eyes.

"I thought you were dead," he murmured into her neck.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Promise me that you won't leave me."

She frowned down at him, his face still buried next to her shoulder. "How can I make that promise?" His head whipped up, mistakenly thinking that she was picking a fight, but her eyes were soft – she was his Blair again. "How can I promise you that I'll never leave you when the time might come when I don't have a choice?"

He thought for a minute, pondering her words. "Then promise me that you love me."

She promised, and even though it was not enough to erase what she had said to him or to prevent the vicissitudes of the future, for the moment that was enough.

When he finally emerged from Blair's room – after hours with his face buried in her hair, telling her all that had transpired, leaving nothing out – he was surprised by two things. First, he was amazed that night had come. Eventually, Blair had began despairing for his knees, kneeling next to her that way. So, even though it was crowded and he was sure that shuffling around caused her great pain, she had eventually begged him to climb onto the bed with her. There, he had held her as tightly as he dared, his fingers fiddling with the gauze on her chest as they discussed their experiences.

"What was it like when you were unconscious?" Chuck asked, playing with her hands, separating each of the fingers and kissing her fingertips.

"It's all a thick, black fog," she admitted, clasping his hand and resting it on her chest. "Until I started to wake up. Then I heard voices – and all I could think about was where you were. I think that irritated daddy."

If she noticed his face darken at the mention of her father, she didn't let on. Most of the time, they talked about the surreal experience of the hospital waiting room – although he downplayed the way her parents had kept information from him; she was already well aware of her parent's dislike of him. She felt no such compunction about commenting about Rufus Humphrey's role in the whole ordeal.

"So Rufus Humphrey was your co-conspirator?"

"_You're_ my co-conspirator," Chuck shrugged as he drew shapes in her palm. "Humphrey Senior was a means to an end."

"So Humphreys in all their shapes and forms are growing on you," Blair mused. "Vanessa came in and gave me a good, old-fashioned talking to about…you know…what I said to you."

Already, like all fights in a relationship, it had become an unpleasant memory that they didn't like to mention out loud. Chuck ignored the pang in his chest that came with the recollection, instead focusing on memorising the shape of the bruises around her eyes. He was strangely possessive of her, more so than usual, and he frowned with disapproval whenever a nurse would come in to change the bandages on her chest. At one point, Eleanor had stuck her head in, but she had left without any comment other than, "Make sure she eats some of that food."

"I'll go get you some of your favourite pastries," he breathed into her ear. "You don't have to eat that shit."

"Don't leave," she pouted, knowing she was being a pain, but relishing the way he cherished her, even after she had tried to throw it all away.

"I'll send Nathaniel," he grinned. "He's trying to make up for disappearing pretty hard."

"So is Serena. I'm considering asking her to perform _HMS Pinafore_ for me as an act of repentance."

"I'd be happy to perform for you," he purred, running his hand across her shoulder bones and kissing her on the lips – until, of course, she had moved to deepen the kiss and let out a help at the feeling of putting pressure on her shattered leg.

"I'm sorry," she said, through tears of pain and frustration.

"It's fine. I can wait."

He'd only left the room in order to find a nurse. She felt a strange sort of pressure on her chest, and even though she'd begged him to just stay put and let her worry about doctors later, he had insisted that she have it looked at. When Eleanor entered the room, she and Chuck had formed an unlikely alliance to bully Blair into accepting a quick check-up.

"You guys are ganging up on me," she muttered in mock-annoyance. Chuck felt a pang when he realized how happy she was to see him and Eleanor getting on reasonably well.

He had intended to hurry back in right away, but the second surprising aspect to the scene outside her room captured his attention. It seemed that quite a crowd had formed in the waiting room. Not only were Dan and Nate still there, along with Serena and Vanessa, but also sitting nearby were Eric and Jenny, in stilted conversation with Rufus and Roman.

Chuck noticed with a swoop of satisfaction that Harold was sitting in the waiting room as well. It seemed that now that Blair was awake and in her right mind, Chuck had the power as gatekeeper. He flashed Harold a sarcastic grin before giving the whole room an update. Harold rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, muttering darkly to Cyrus, who was sitting next to him and looking as thrilled as ever with life, the universe, and everything.

"When can we go in?" Serena complained, making Chuck smirk with satisfaction when she addressed the question to him instead of to any of Blair's parental figures.

"She's just getting her chest looked at for a second. Then I'll go and check on whether she's feeling up to visitors."

"She was definitely feeling up to it when she threw that vase at me," Nate muttered.

"And we just want to make sure she has the strength to give it another go, Nate," Jenny joked.

Chuck couldn't help but be taken away by the festive atmosphere, feeling more than a little elated by the turn of events. Although the sight of Blair's injuries was sobering to say the least, he was determined to help her through it. So busy trading jokes with Dan and Eric, it took a while for him to notice that the steady flow of doctors had increased, and that they had begun converging on a single point.

"Something's happening," Vanessa commented, unaware that she was echoing his words from the day before.

Chuck frowned and glanced down the hallway, his blood chilling when he saw that they were heading to Blair's room. Cursing, he stood up and jogged back to her room, only partly aware that Harold kept pace with him. The door was obstructed by doctors and nurses, but Chuck saw the way the ground was covered in bloodied bandages. Blair's bandages, Chuck realized, the colour draining from his face.

"Ask them what's going on," Chuck shouted in Harold's direction. He may have enjoyed a moment of power back in the waiting room, but when it came to hospital staff, the family card was key. He was only vaguely aware of everyone else's presence, stretching down the hallway.

"What the hell is going on here?" Harold barked at one of the doctors.

"You're going to have to stay out here and not get in the way," a humourless resident responded. "We're wheeling her into surgery now."

"What happened?" Chuck whispered, uncertain as to whether anyone heard him.

"Pulmonary embolism," the doctor responded flatly, without emotion. "It's a - "

"Blood clot," Harold finished, his face ashen.

"But I was just talking to her," Chuck protested furiously. "She was fine. How does this happen? I was just talking to her."

"I need you to get out of the way, sir," a male nurse said gently, pulling him back.

"Get your fucking hands off me," he spat, blind with panic as they wheeled her towards the sign, which read SURGERY with an arrow pointing to the right. In another minute she would be out of sight. "Blair! _Blair_!"

Eleanor emerged, looking ancient and haggard. But Chuck ignored her, straining against the hold that the nurse had on him. Even though the nurse had about a hundred pounds on him, Chuck fought against his grasp like a wildcat, desperate to make his way back to her.

Without acknowledging him, Harold and Eleanor hurried after the crowd of doctors who obscured Blair's face from his view. Within a few moments, they had all disappeared, leaving Chuck, no longer struggling, staring after them.

**That Night**: [6]

After his hallway breakdown in front of his friends, one thing stayed with him: the question, _what if she dies_?

Although his friends exchanged worried glances, he had calmed down in the minutes since his collapse, because of one comforting thought that had come upon him.

The thought had been a very simple thing, and the only reason he had baulked at telling his friends was because it had seemed such an intimate thing. He had simply realized that if the roles were reversed and he had somehow had the opportunity to speak to Blair, he would have told her – after informing her that in the event of his death she was to join a nunnery – that she was _Blair Waldorf_, a survivor, and not someone who fell apart. He would have told her to strive until her last breath against despair and to show them all, all of their enemies, all of their friends, what it mean to fight.

And then he would have laid his ghostly lips against hers, and assured her that at the end of the long journey towards death, he would wait for her. Until finally, the world would release its hold on her and they could be together once more.

There was some comfort in that – although it was more satisfying to crack his knuckles and glare at Harold, who had emerged from the exclusive SURGERY section within a few minutes, but had yet to tell Chuck a thing. It was only because Rufus had asked that he knew that Eleanor had stayed with Blair; only one family member was entitled to watch.

So, all of them were surprised when Eleanor suddenly reappeared to interrupt the tense staring match between Chuck and Harold.

"What's happening, Eleanor?" Harold asked anxiously.

"They're getting her ready for surgery. And she wants to see you," Eleanor responded softly.

Harold made as if to get out of his seat and hurry towards the operating theatre, but before he could stand up fully, she laid a soft hand on his arm. Chuck watched a grim sense of satisfaction as Harold wilted in the chair. That taunting question – about forcing Blair to choose between her father and Chuck – was still ringing in his ears.

"She wants to see you, Charles."

Chuck swallowed, before nodding mutely and following Eleanor to the fiercely guarded section of the hospital where feats of life and death were performed with startling regularity. Despite his fear, he was heartened by the encouraging nods that Vanessa and Eric gave him as he passed.

They made him put on the sterile hospital-standard gowns that all the patients wore, and for a brief, insane moment, Chuck imagined that it was him who was having the operation. He wished that it were him instead of Blair. It was easy to be operated upon; the hard part was waiting.

Eleanor let him enter the room alone, and for a moment he could scarcely discern Blair from the machines around her that beeped and whirred. When he found her, dressed in a surgical gown with a strange shower-cap on top of her head, he couldn't help but smile.

"Nice hat, Waldorf," he said gently, touching her face with his gloved hand.

With a mask over her mouth, slowly pulling her down into an anaesthetized state, she could only write what she wanted to say on a small notepad that had been supplied by a kind nurse.

_Nice gloves_, she scrawled, making him chortle.

"You make it look sexy," he assured her. "And soon enough you'll be back in your hot dresses and headbands."

Her eyes creased slightly.

"It's okay. You can tell me. Write it down."

This one took longer to write; she had to fight against that natural instinct to hide away any vulnerabilities. When she finally wrote the simple statement: _I'm scared_, Chuck was overcome with the desire to kiss her.

"I know," he murmured. "I'm fucking terrified. But I'll be here when you wake up. I won't leave." That seemed to calm her slightly, even if it inspired a blind sort of panic in Chuck, who felt tears forming in his eyes. "As long as you…you promise to - "

But what could he possibly ask her to promise him? Although he wanted to have her swear not to die, he knew that she could never guarantee that and the question was too terrifying to even pose. At this point, that promise was the only one that mattered. So, he settled for a joke.

"As long as you promise that you'll let me give you the sponge baths when you're in recovery.

_Deal_, she wrote. Before adding, _You perv._

"Guilty as charged," he said, noticing that the doctors were starting to gesture at him to leave the room, and seeing that Blair's eyes were starting to close. Feeling a sudden time pressure, Chuck felt the frantic need to draw out their time together. He wished he could think of something grand to say. But nothing brilliant sprang to mind, so he settled for the truth. "I love you."

_Promise?_

He chuckled. "I promise."

With that, she fell asleep and he was ushered from the room. Now came the waiting, he thought, turning to look at her through the glass, with Eleanor at his side.

"I couldn't think of anything to say," she admitted, suddenly. "And you were the only person she wanted to talk to. To be honest, I thought about saying no."

Chuck's jaw twitched in irritation. "Why didn't you?"

"Because it didn't seem right," Eleanor shrugged. "She's going to be fine, you know. She's tough. She'll be fine."

"Of course," he said, before turning to return to his friends. But before he could walk away she suddenly grasped his shoulder, making him jump with the sudden contact.

"I'm sorry for how Harold and I have been acting," she said.

She was probably waiting for him to tell her that it was okay, but he just stared at her stonily until she nodded and released his shoulder. He looked at her with hooded eyes through the near-darkness of the hallway, which contrasted so starkly with the artificial light of the operating theatre.

"Whatever that was," he said intently. "Whatever that whole business with shutting me out – with getting me out of Blair's life. You do _not_ do that anymore. You will tell the doctors to give me access – you will tell me what is happening." Chuck's voice wavered only slightly. "You should know that no matter what you do or say, I am staying by her side. So I'd strongly advise you not to even try to pull me away. Because if you do…"

"If I do, what?" Eleanor asked with an attempt at defiance.

"If you do," Chuck replied stiffly. "I will make you live to regret it."

She almost made a sarcastic comment, but something in the look on his face told her that he was not joking, not in the slightest. Eleanor felt a thrill of fear pass through her, along with a reassuring sense of comfort. So this was what it looked like to have a daughter who inspired threats in a man such as Chuck Bass. Taking in the flat tone of his voice and the way his mouth was set, she merely nodded mutely, accepting his statement without query or challenge. .

"I really am sorry, Charles."

He barely inclined his head when he left her.

Even he was puzzled by his staunch refusal to accept her apology and it was not until he once more reached the comparative safety of the hospital waiting room that he realized why her words had disturbed him.

It was because they sounded like a deathbed confession.

[1] Loosely based on Season 7 of the _West Wing_, when Donna is sent to check on Josh during election night.

[2] Taken straight from Season 2 of _Gossip Girl._ I just loved Chuck's

[3] A line from _State of Play_.

[4] Gosh, I am on a _West Wing _rampage. This was Will Bailey's advice to Charlie Young in the series.

[5] "All the way down" by Glen Hansard.

[6] Remember to read beginning of the previous chapter for this scene. Sorry to confuse with this new-fangled story telling style!

[7] To continue the _West Wing_ theme, this scene is modelled on the Season 5 episodes where Donna is treated after her injuries in Gaza.


	18. Chapter 18: The Dead Woman

A/N: Warning – this chapter contains a lot of perspectives that I have picked up and dusted off after a few chapters of neglect. Because as we come to the end of this story, we have to turn our attention to those outside forces that have been obscured by Chuck and Blair drama. Next chapter will be very much from C/B's perspectives.

**Chapter Eighteen****: The Dead Woman**

_If suddenly you do not exist,_

_If suddenly you are not living,_

_I shall go on living._

_I do not dare,_

_I do not dare to write it,_

_If you die. _

_I shall go on living._

_Because where a man has no voice,_

_There, my voice_

_Where blacks are beaten,_

_I can not be dead._

_When my brothers go to jail_

_I shall go with them._

_When victory,_

_Not my victory,_

_But the great victory_

_Arrives,_

_Even though I am mute I must speak:_

_I shall see it come even though I am blind._

_No, forgive me,_

_If you are not living_

_If you, beloved, my love,_

_If you _

_Have died_

**- Pablo Neruda "The Dead Woman"**

Lily had never been as shocked as everyone else was by Blair and Chuck's relationship.

Bart had been more than a little incredulous to learn that the meticulous Blair Waldorf, who had always been steadfastly tethered to Nate Archibald in Bart's mind, had decided to fall for Chuck. Although he had never really taken the time to get to know Chuck's friends, Bart could all too easily see that Blair Waldorf was the sort of girl who revelled in the polished perfection of a pristine record. In contrast, Chuck positively luxuriated in an affected decadence that drew him deeper into the darkness that always threatened to pass from the outer field of his vision to consume him.

Bart Bass was a man of mathematics, a man of dispassionate rationality. And the equation of Chuck and Blair had never quite made sense to him. Even as he sat with an almost proud look on his face, leaning back in his chair and resting his arm across the back of Lily's, as he watched Chuck and Blair dance at the wedding. He had watched them for a long time, still elated from Chuck's speech.

"It's nature versus nurture," Bart said gruffly.

"What is?" Lily asked, tracing the vector of his eyes to Chuck and Blair. "Well. Aren't they sweet together?"

Bart ignored her response, still watching them intently as Chuck placed his protective hand at the base of Blair's spine. "I have always imagined that nature was the key, Lily. that w are forged from the same clay that will define us for the rest of our lives. But now I'm starting to think that we can change the manner of our forging. It's nurture."

Lily felt a thrill of foreboding. It was such a small thing, but at the time she had felt a prickle of misgiving that Bart was so eager to characterise his son as a villain by nature. She knew Chuck's reputation – had herself heard society women titter about it – but she had always had a soft-spot for the rogue, and had wanted to reach out to him. Of course, at the time, she couldn't know that the man she was marrying was a composite of secrets, vying to be buried still deeper in a frame so stiched up and disciplined because lies were all it housed. At the time, she didn't know that Chuck had been born because of a misguided love affair. Although, when she thought about the way he entered the world, it made a sort of sense. He was born the moment his mother breathed her last. The passion she had felt for Jack Bass had been the death of her.

It was the perfect complement, really, for Blair – whose birth had been planned down to the finest detail. Borne of rigorous planning but without any passion. They reached out to the other because we each of us strive for completion. Underneath the affected cockiness they both displayed, they had been left incomplete. She had understood it right away, but she hadn't really taken it seriously. When it had imploded that first summer, she had been disappointed for them, but not particularly surprised. Their romance would be as fleeting as the summer itself, and then it would be a memory of hazy childhood.

But they proved more stubborn than she expected. They had made their way back towards each other. She had known it by Chuck's sudden disappearances, by the intermittent ding of an elevator when the whole family was accounted for at home. And then, the evening she had seen them dance at the Snowflake Ball, Lily had been devastated by the necessity to intrude upon that delicate cocoon.

There must be something human nature that demanded that the dead remain out of sight. The morgue was tucked away, almost underground. Despite its hidden furtiveness, it was still glaringly white and sterile.

There was something strange about the scene on the bottom floor of the hospital where Bart's body had been taken. Lily's white dress had all but disappeared against the blank backdrop. Serena's flesh tones and blonde hair were washed out in the artificial lighting, but even looking like a wraith, her arm was around Lily's shoulder, comforting her mother.

A part of Lily resented the intrusion of Blair; Lily, despite her questionable decisions as a mother, had always been a strong believer in the importance of the line between family and outsiders. For a moment, when they stood next to the taxi that Lily had called to the dance, she had made a subtle attempt to dismiss Serena's old friend, who threw such worried glances in Chuck's direction.

"Thank you for your concern Blair," she said with the wan smile that would not leave her face for the next week.

"I'll call you," Serena promised, squeezing her arm and inadvertently pulling her away from Chuck, who looked at the three women with his typically inscrutable face. Lily knew that Serena was taking her cues from Lily, and having already insisted that she come the hospital, Serena wasn't certain that she could convince her mother to allow Blair to come too – or whether Blair would even want to. Bart belonged to Lily and Chuck more than he belonged to her, but she was determined to be there for her mother. Lily's smile didn't falter, as Blair glanced in her direction and discerned the note of dismissal. It was not unkind; it was just what was done in these circumstances.

"Yes, of course," Blair said, pulling back politely. "If there's anything I can do…"

"Come," Chuck said sharply.

Serena, Lily and Blair turned around to look at Chuck with surprise. His arms were crossed over his chest and his lips pressed into a thin line. He seemed so out of place on the sidewalk in his ostentatious suit, still sparkling under the streetlights, next to a taxi. Without Blair pressed to his side, he seemed like a caricature. He looked almost comical.

"Charles," Lily said slowly. "We're going to the hospital…to…well…we have to claim Bart…"

"I want you to come," he said again, not breaking eye contact with Blair.

With a start, Lily realized that he wasn't asking for permission. Blair didn't even look at her before nodding curtly and moving back to his side. In that instant the scene shifted and he no longer looked comical. With Blair at his side, in her long dress with her dark hair, he looked mournful and elegant under the moonlight. Lily was suddenly very aware of her own solitude, scared for the future and utterly unprepared for what the night would bring. It was then that she surrendered her control over the scene.

And so, Chuck took charge, opening the door for Lily and Serena, before helping Blair into the back seat next to him. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, Lily noticed the stiff straightness of his back and the way his eyes focused on the middle distance. She also saw the way Blair stared straight ahead of her, not even looking at Chuck when she silently placed her hand on top of his. Still, her face registered nothing when his hand curled slightly so that their hands were clasped. Lily saw that she wasn't the only one who noticed this tiny intimacy; Serena stared at their joined hands intensely, staring at Blair's profile in the middle seat.

As they waited awkwardly in the holding room, their eyes flicking nervously to the sign that read MORGUE, Lily noticed the effect that the white surroundings had on Chuck and Blair. It didn't wash them out, as it had Serena and Lily. They stood out defiantly against the linoleum floor: their hair and eyes darker than ever, her midnight blue and his sparkling black appearing more dramatic than ever. Under the artificial lights, they appeared white and mournful, dark and graceful, standing apart from Lily and Serena.

They didn't touch, but they stared at each other with a sort of telepathic understanding that made Lily's chest expand painfully.

They seemed so much larger than themselves that night, and Lily had been in awe of their combined strength. That was her only excuse when the mortician came out – all long limbs and short hair – to ask one of them to step forward to identify the body. The moment that the request was made, three pairs of eyes turned to Lily. It was the job of the wife, she supposed, but suddenly the very notion of walking down that long hallway was horrifying and she clung to Serena's hand – a coward.

"I can't," she whispered, feeling her daughter's sympathetic hand squeeze, even as she saw Blair's incredulous disapproval.

"You don't have to," Serena cooed. "You don't have to do anything."

Blair seemed to realize what was happening before anyone else. She cast a desperate look at the mortician, who fiddled uncomfortably with his lab coat. "I need a family member," he said softly, his very bearing telling them that he hated this.

"I'll go," Chuck said flatly.

Lily knew that Blair was looking at her, waiting for her to spare Chuck this ordeal. It wasn't that Lily didn't want to; she waited for her mouth to start moving, she waited for her brain to comprehend what she was asking of Bart's seventeen-year old son. But nothing happened. She said nothing.

"Why?" Blair asked the mortician, angrily. "We all know what Bart looks like. Why does it have to be a family member?"

"Blair," Chuck interrupted harshly. "I'll go."

"I'll come with you," she offered in a low voice, surprising all of them.

He must still have been in shock at that point, Lily now realized. But it wouldn't become clear until he returned from viewing his father's body, when he shut himself away from all of them. When Lily looked back, she knew that it was at this moment that the Chuck Bass they had all known for so many years was entirely burnt away.

Lily remembered reading about the passage to the Underworld when she was a freshman in college, so when she sensed the profound change in him after that small journey up the hall, she would forever associate it with the passage across the River Styx.

Of course, even Chuck failed to realize the significance of his brave offer to spare Lily the horror of what was required of them. Not realizing that he had only a few minutes of being himself left, he offered Blair the ghost of a smirk, before taking a few steps towards her and surprising all of them by kissing her lightly on the lips.

"I'm going alone."

His voice had brook no refusal, and as he walked down the hall (head held high, but looking smaller than usual) to view his father's body, Lily noticed that Blair's hand unconsciously pressed itself to her lips. Witnessing Blair's stubborn refusal to let go of Chuck in the days and weeks that would follow, Lily knew that it was that final kiss that would hold her captive. She would replay it a hundred times, Lily knew. She would think about that strange intimacy in this grotesque setting and wonder what was going on in his mind. She would contemplate every hidden meaning; she would try to make sense of it. And it would come to mean more to her than the many ways he would push her away, if for no other reason that she could not name it.

But when Chuck walked quickly up the hallway, his hands shoved in his pockets and his face pale, there was no sign of the fleeting intimacy on his face.

"It's done," he barked, before striding towards the exit.

"Chuck - " Blair said gently, reaching out to touch him lightly on the forearm. It was as if her touch burned him, because his entire body stiffened in affront. Lily and Serena had receded to the background, watching their silent negotiation. Although they stood frozen for a few seconds, soon enough Chuck shook his head – clearing it of her.

"Just – leave me alone," he spat.

"Charles," Lily started, stopping short when Blair raised a hand to silence her as Chuck left the door swinging behind him.

"He needs space," Blair said simply. "Let him go."

Lily had nodded, already feeling humbled by her earlier display of cowardice, knowing that Blair found her pathetic. Maybe she had been pathetic in that moment, but one thing came upon her as they all watched the door Chuck had disappeared through. Lily understood – before Blair herself – what the kiss had been.

It was a goodbye kiss. It was not meant for Blair, not really. Chuck had been bidding himself farewell; what he had seen in the morgue had changed him forever, irrevocably. And although he would find his way back to Blair, he would never again be who he had been.

Months later, when Lily found herself disappearing like an exhalation, she would come upon Chuck and Blair sitting before a low fire in the living room. Blair's legs were bent over his lap, one of his arms around her back and the other resting over her shins, tracing shapes on her legs. She came upon them unseen, towards the end of their conversation.

"I'm glad you didn't," Chuck was saying, obviously in response to something Blair had told him. "I wouldn't want you to have the image in your head."

"But _you_ have it in your head," Blair protested, tracing his jaw line. "You dream about it. It's unfair for you to have to carry it alone. I wish I could take it from you."

Chuck turned his haunted eyes on her, still oblivious to his adopted mother's presence. For a long time he was silent, considering what she said. Then, he shrugged, looking back towards the fire. "But then - "

"Then, what?" she asked when he didn't finish.

"Then you'd be part of it," he said simply. "And I'd never escape."

Blair had kissed him then, and Lily had felt another swoop of guilt for letting him down that night. But even as she faded back upstairs, she knew that she would never have been able to carry the burden that she had so carelessly forced on Chuck. And if she had had been forced to hold it, she never would have found someone to lessen it's load. For a moment, she envied them. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she had never quite known the feelings that seemed to brew between Chuck and Blair. She was envious of the eighteen-year old girl who had found what had constantly eluded her.

That night, there was no thought of envy, only a barely controlled terror that Blair might slip away from them and Chuck would lose himself again. He was strong, that she knew. But he had already pulled himself together once before, and even then, only with Blair's help. If she were suddenly to leave him, Lily knew that he would fall apart completely. His sheer survival instinct may force him to carry on, but Lily had no doubt that he would find it impossible to accommodate the loss of Blair. He would become as insubstantial as ghost himself, and merely mark the days until he could follow her. Lily knew that the next time he crossed the River Styx, he would not return to her – and more, that she didn't have the right to ask him to.

But this time she didn't want him to disappear down a long and gruesome hallway by himself. She wanted to take his hand in hers until the time came when she could put it once more in Blair's warm grasp.

It was a little game that Dan sometimes liked to play with himself: to write himself into a scene like a character in one of his stories.

He would be performing some mind-numbing task, would be having an everyday conversation while grinding coffee for his cappuccino machine or helping his father polish the dark wood of the dining room table, and suddenly he would not be in his body anymore. There would be no warning; one minute he would be doing whatever it was he was doing and the next he would be watching himself. And in those moments the words that came into his mind would not be in his own voice, but in the voice of a narrator. It was only in these moments that he could see himself clearly.

Although the moments would be fleeting, he would occasionally remember a snatch of the description that the omnipotent narrator had given him. It was easy to set aside those small physical defects that occasionally made his cheek twitch or made his sentences run into one another when he was nervous. Harder to cast off were the more sweeping statements: the statements he made about himself that spoke to his character.

He had often wondered whether that notion of the fatal flaw really existed outside of the works of literature he read? He wondered whether a person's downfall was at times written into his or her DNA. Was there a dark shadowy crack, running down the middle of a life? And if it did, what would Dan Humphrey's fatal flaw be? [1]

Glancing at his friends and not-quite-so-friends as they sat pale knuckled and clench-jawed in the waiting room, Dan thought that it might have been his own tendency to narrate his own life. Because as he took his first tentative steps towards the writer's life, he could feel something in him changing: a shift in perception that made every person a character and made every event a scene. A longing to write the present; a longing that could never be realized.

And so he was drawn to those dazzling figments of a life he had scarcely known. While Dan Humphrey in his scenster cardigan and with his ironic moleskine notebook may once have smirked at the sight of Chuck Bass walking across the road dressed in the regalia of a man twice his age, a part of him itched to know that kind of decadence. A part of him longed to understand the inner workings of the boy with the fob watch who refused to be constrained by niceties, and who got away with it for no other reason than he was given the last name of a man who had built half the New York skyline.

He was Dan Humphrey, and for the most part he was happy with his warm family, his dedicated parents. But he knew that there was nothing in his childhood that was anything more than comfortably middle class – too well-off to struggle heroically, not well-off enough to be interesting.

Dan felt a thrill of fondness as he considered the way Serena Van Der Woodsen had reshaped his life: how she had opened up new worlds to him. Even though he sent inarticulate, resentful looks her way from the other side of the waiting room, and refused to even look in her eyes when they both went to the vending machine at the same time, he knew that one day, when the anger died down, he would look back on their relationship with fondness and a sense of awe. Knowing that both of them had made mistakes, but that both of them would be forever shaped by the other person's impact on their lives.

Of course, Dan's mistakes had occurred earlier in their relationship; it had been a part of his stubborn desire to create a narrative where life should have been. Serena had entered the pages of his life, cast in a certain light, limited by the boundaries of a character he had created from scratch. And then the instant that she had deviated from the course he had created for her, he hated her for it. That was not how the story was meant to go. Although, had he actually been aware of this hidden life that smelled like sweaty skin and anonymous sex, his first story about his Dream Girl would have been a lot more interesting.

He now remembered with embarrassment that story that had been published in the _New Yorker_; it seemed so obviously an "Early Work". It was, as Noah Shapiro had intimated, startlingly juvenile, exceptionally saccharine. It was a "brilliant first attempt" from an up-and-comer. But wasn't that, in itself, a terrific insult? From the moment the story had been taken from his drawer and sent to 4 Times Square, he had entered the public world – he had a clear starting point. And there was a distinct possibility that he would never advance beyond that starting point. Maybe he had – as he had joked to Jenny and Rufus forever ago – peaked.

And this fear of failure, the fear of not living up to everyone else's expectations, ate away at him, even now when one of his friends was unconscious in surgery. Even now, he found himself thinking about how he would write the scene: how he would convey the ashen pallor of Chuck's skin and the slightly manic burning of his eyes.

"It's going to be okay," Cyrus said to Harold and Chuck, as they leant against the wall of the waiting room. It was only then that either Harold or Chuck noticed their close proximity, even though Dan had been marvelling at the way they had exactly mirrored each other. Both had their arms crossed defensively over their chests, but had clenched jaws. But while Harold's brow was furrowed and his hands white against his arms, Dan found his eyes drawn to Chuck's face – lacking in any expression.

Harold was quite obviously a worried parent: a parent facing the very worst thing that a parent could ever face. Dan remembered his own parents speaking in undertones when he was still quite young talking about the death of a close family friend's youngest son. Dan remembered the way Alison had been on the verge of tears as Rufus froze on hearing the news. As his parents embraced, Dan heard his mother's voice lowered in horror.

"I just can't stop thinking – thank god it wasn't Dan or Jenny," Alison whispered apologetically.

"It's unimaginable," Rufus agreed fervently.

It was one of his most cherished memories, for some morbid reason. Because it had been a perfect portrait of his parent's relationship, with its mutual support and determined dedication to their family. And Dan was somewhat comforted to remember the time when his parents had been a united front, before he had grown old enough to understand their hidden worlds and their long and threatening pasts. It was definitely a type of comfort to know that Blair Waldorf, for all her familial dysfunction, was bathed in the glow of parents who cared. She was cared about the way Dan himself had always been. Harold's posture reminded him of that scene between his parents. And just as Rufus had reached through his own grief to pull Dan's mother into a tight embrace, Roman approached his lover every ten minutes or so – offering some food or a drink, or merely the warm embrace of a loved one.

Without Blair there to watch over him with her fiercely attentive gaze, Chuck seemed horribly alone. It was probably the fear that he would push them away that stopped any of those congregated in the waiting room from approaching him. Or maybe they all sensed that there was only one person who would be able to reach him in this state – and that anyone else even attempting would be an insult to him. One that he would never be able to abide.

Nonetheless, they all kept their eyes on him, as if they were certain that at any moment he may fall over and they wanted to be sure to catch him. It was impossible to look away from him, with that blank look on his face – as if he were regarding a vast grey future without Blair next to him to offer him food or a drink or the warm embrace of a loved one. The only one loved in Chuck's melancholy but notable life. All Chuck had to do to be of note was enter a room and lean against a blindingly white wall.

That small, inconsiderate part of Dan was jealous. He was actually jealous that Chuck was destined always to be someone of note, someone who was written about. Even now, in this inconsequential scene, Chuck formed the epicentre of anger and sympathy. Even Blair's father cast him sidelong glances of appraisal. Nate and Serena hovered near him like bodyguards.

Dan found it hard to remember the first time he had actually known who Chuck and Blair were. The names of his classmates had never been particularly interesting to him, although Jenny had parroted facts about them around the house.

To some extent, the whole Non-Judging Breakfast Club (a moniker apparently conceived of by Blair) had formed a grey sort of background noise in the Humphrey Loft for the majority of his life at St Jude's.

"Seriously Jen," he groaned, tap-tap-tapping away at his keyboard as he rubbed his temples to drown out his younger sister's trilling voice. "You've never even met these people. Why do you care?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "Duh, Dan. Because they're like famous."

"They're really _like_ not," Dan responded grouchily but not unkindly. "Besides. On your worst day you have about thirty times more to offer the world than Blair Waldorf."

"Please," she retorted. "It's sweet that you think that and everything, but Blair Waldorf and I are not in the same league. That's just how it is."

"That's not how life is, Jen," Dan said sagely, returning to his typing. "It's just how high school is. And the only reason High School is like that is because everyone feeds into this ridiculous notion that there is a caste system that we're all bound by."

"But not you, right Dan?" Jenny said sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. Dan secretly (or not so secretly) hated that she could raise her eyebrows. In his darkest moments, he had practiced in front of a mirror, trying to affect that same disdainful boredom that came so easily to Jenny.

"No," he replied smugly.

"So is the fact that you've never spoken to Serena Van Der Woodsen completely unrelated to the social caste system?"

Dan had felt a surprising flush of anger – disproportionate to her words. He'd been forced to swallow his anger and offer her an ironic smile, while he secretly fumed at the cavalier way she mocked him. Just because he was aware of the artificiality of the social order of high school didn't mean that he wasn't achingly aware of his own position within it. It was a fleeting moment of anger, quickly followed by a feeling of sympathy for Jenny. Soon enough she would start at Constance and see that for all the hours she had dedicated to memorising every fault line of the relationships that coloured the Upper East Side, they would never so much as glance at her.

"I don't _not_ talk to Serena because of social hierarchy," Dan retorted. "I don't talk to Serena because she's really, really hot. And really, really hot girls have a tendency to make me lose the power of speech."

Jenny smiled her malicious younger-sister smile. "Really? Then do you think we could get one to sit in the loft…that way maybe the rest of us will get a word in edgewise."

"Right. Because it was _me_ who spent the last four hours talking about the bed-hopping and bitchery of the belated seedlings of an out of date aristocracy."

Jenny just blinked at him. And as Dan had predicted, she had entered Constance in ballet flats and sporting a headband, daring to imagine that she would be able to win her way into the inner sanctum. She was destined to be disappointed.

She had come to terms with it, of course. Before she had morphed into the thoroughly _cool_ clothes designer who now sat nudging Eric in the ribs and forcing him to read _Women's Wear Daily_ as a distraction, Dan would have said that Jenny's fatal flaw was her desperate longing to have been born someone else: her inarticulate, guilty sense that she had been born to the wrong family. Not that she would ever have admitted it now. She had forged herself a new identity instead: coming to the surprisingly mature decision that it was better to be the best Jenny Humphrey that she could, instead of a reasonable facsimile of the girls on the steps. Ironically, it was only now that she had defined her own identity that the female androids that had followed Blair around for a year had come to respect her. Dan was more than a little proud when she rejected their advances at every turn.

He had to admit, though, that it was Jenny's voice he played in his head when he was accidentally invited to the party where he would exchange words with Serena Van Der Woodsen that would form the measly substance of a crush that would last for the majority of High School – even after it was requited. A part of his romantic image of her had been correct: she _had_ longed to define herself against the crippling hierarchy of Constance; she had longed to get to know someone who was driven not by social status but by passion and kindness. But even now, she teetered on the line between a life of her own and a life that her family would approve of.

For the first time, Dan wondered whether one choice could really be characterised as right and the other wrong. Each life was touched by misfortune, each life was touched by disaster – it would be an over-simplification to say that one person had chosen correctly and the other had chosen the wrong path. Look at Chuck and Blair – and the complex levels of pride, approval, and passion that defined their interactions.

This was life, Dan realized. This wasn't a story. There was not just one right path and one wrong path: there were hundreds, or thousands, or a hundred thousands ways to change a minute detail and therefore change the rest of your life. It was enough to drive a man crazy to even consider it. What course of events had led to Chuck sitting here in this waiting room? What course of events had led to the perfect love between two imperfect people, far too young to experience it? And how would the night and day ahead impact upon them?

One thing that Dan hadn't realized was that Constance and St Jude's didn't exist in a vacuum. Dan had never had a sense of the vast machinery that defined the social order. There were outside forces acting upon all of his friends – and probably he himself. And for a moment he was overwhelmed by the way strangers could impact upon a life. For a moment, he would have liked to have been powerful. For just the most fleeting of instances, Dan forgot how acutely he hated those people who manipulated a person's life for their own gain. Dan imagined himself as a kind of Bart Bass – someone who could bend the world's will to his own.

But just as soon as he saw himself in that light, it began to dim and he was once more aware of the feeling of Vanessa's shoulder against his (nothing improper, really about her pose, but he knew that Serena was casting them dagger eyes) and the nose-crinkling smell of antiseptic.

Because he had seen Bart Bass stand lonely at his window with his hands clasped behind his back, musing, maybe, that he could cause the traffic to simply stop moving if he willed it so. Dan had even tried to put it into words – had in fact written some of his best work when he turned his pen to Bart Bass, before tucking the pages away in a drawer for the sake of Serena, Eric, and even Chuck.

Dan barely noticed Eric sitting next to him as he watched Chuck's monosyllabic responses to kind and well-meaning Cyrus' rallying words. At one point he noticed Harold and Chuck share an irritated look at the man's incessant prattling.

"He's a constant stranger to me," Eric said suddenly, following Dan's eyes in that perceptive way of his.

"You know him better than most," Dan responded, knowing of course that Eric was talking about Chuck.

"Yes, I do. And that only makes me more aware of how much further I have to go before I really know him."

Dan turned to look at Eric's blue eyes. A part of Dan wondered at how Eric had managed to hold onto that sweetness of his, in a world that told each and every one of them that sweetness was weakness. Dan felt suddenly self-conscious of his own cynicism - embarrassed that he had always considered that same cynicism a sort of badge of honour. There was nothing weak-willed or naïve about Eric's view of the world, and yet he was so kind. Dan smiled fondly at him.

"That's the difference though isn't it?"

"What?"

Dan gestured widely. "You're one of the few people who actually bother to look closer."

Eric shrugged awkwardly, reminding Dan that he was still very young. "Once you start looking at Chuck, it gets pretty hard to look away."

With silent acknowledgement, Dan turned back to the subject of interest, noticing with a start that the scene had shifted once more. Chuck had stopped leaning against the wall and was staring intently at Cyrus' face.

"What did you just say?" Chuck said with such sudden emphasis that Cyrus took pause.

"I said that my son – Aaron? You remember. He's coming to be with the family while Blair's in hospital."

"You've spoken to him?"

"Well, yes," Cyrus glanced around in bewilderment. "He's catching the next plane from London."

"Did you ask him to?"

"It was his idea," Cyrus shrugged.

"It was his idea," Chuck parroted flatly, before striding away from Blair's diminutive step-father. "Excuse me, I have a phone call to make."

"Do you have any idea what that's about?" Eric asked, glancing at Dan.

But Dan was staring intently after Chuck. Then, with a flat chuckle he sighed. "You tell me something Eric. What happens when Chuck can't control everything around him?"

That was an easy one. "He picks the one thing he can control and then bends it disproportionately to his will without reference to the bounds of the law or morality," Eric shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Throw a slight against Blair into the mix," Dan said solemnly.

"And you get the fury of god's own thunder," he swallowed. [2]

Without any further elaboration, Dan stood up and strode after Chuck, determined to ensure that Chuck didn't do anything stupid. As he hurried down the dark halls further into the depths of the hospital, he remembered the most violent confrontation he'd had with Chuck, when he had stood outside Bart's funeral.

_My father is dead because of your father_.

Those words had been the most shocking that Chuck had ever spat in his direction. Dan may have been awed by the awesome power that forces beyond his ken had upon the lives of his friends, but even more startling than that was the way a single person who has come into our acquaintance can tear down our entire world.

So had it been for Chuck when Blair entered his life. And now she lay somewhere between life and death and also dangling in the balance was Chuck's own future. His nerves were frayed and the very prospect of Blair not pulling through was enough to take a toll on his sanity. Chuck's old impulse for destruction would inevitably rise to the surface, and knowing that he had put too much time into building his relationship with Blair to take an honest-to-god swing at her father, he would funnel all of his aggression into some ill-fated revenge fantasy enacted upon Aaron.

It wasn't that Dan didn't think that the son-of-a-bitch deserved every ounce of retribution. It was more that he had learnt, in his time of associating with Chuck that when he started upon this road into the darkest spaces of his character, it was harder for him to find his way back. As he navigated the halls, he mused that he could have been walking into those recesses of Chuck's own mind, until he came upon his friends standing in a dark room, somewhere in the nurse's section of the hospital.

His back was to Dan, and for some reason the sight of his crooked collar bothered Dan more than it should have. It was so unlike Chuck to be anything less than immaculate in public. It was as if the internal unravelling was starting to write itself upon Chuck's very body.

Dan knew that Chuck had found the only course of action that was possible in this situation: he had completely shut down. He emoted only as much as he had to in order to still be classified as a human being. Dan had to shake his head to pull himself from the narrative he was already composing in his head. He had walked into the tail end of the conversation, but it didn't take a genius to recognise what Chuck was talking about.

"Call me as soon as you have confirmation," Chuck said in the chilly and mechanical voice he always adopted when talking to his P.I. "And then we will discuss an appropriate course of action."

Dan allowed him a moment of silence before he began speaking. He fancied that Chuck was always most comfortable in these dark places. While Blair loved warm lights and the sparkle of the public world, Chuck moved from shadow to shadow, in some ways unwilling to be thrust into the spotlight.

"You know it's always seemed strange to me," Dan said casually, leaning against an abandoned wheelchair. "The way you've never done a day's work in your life and yet you insist on talking like a forty-year old hedge fund manager."

Chuck sighed tiredly. "An elegant mode of address isn't a crime, Humphrey. Maybe if you realized that the characters in your stories wouldn't speak as if they were the stars of a Tom Clancy novel."

Dan knew that neither of their hearts was really in their literary bitchiness. With a valiant attempt at casual, Dan ran his finger over the gears that held the wheelchair in place. "So. What's the plan? You going to have him thrown into the river wearing cement shoes or have his body thrown from a small plane over the Amazon?"

Chuck straightened suddenly – sensing an attack coming. With that strange, self-possessed face he'd been wearing since Blair had been wheeled into surgery, he crossed his arms. "We had an agreement that he has chosen to break."

"So what are you going to do about it, Chuck? Tell me – I'm actually asking."

Although his mouth moved as if to speak, there didn't seem to be any words coming out. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, Humphrey. I'll do what I do. What does it matter?"

"No you won't do anything, really. You'll make some phone calls and have someone else do your dirty work."

"That's how it works," Chuck said coldly.

Dan almost laughed, suddenly furious at his friend, sitting so impassively. Dan forgot about his original intention coming into this room and instead wanted only to see Chuck sweat, to see Chuck emote, to see him act in any way that vaguely resembled a normal human response. "No that's how _you _work. Because you have to control everything. And right now you're not controlling anything. So you're going to have some stupid out-of-proportion response to - "

"Out of pro_por_tion?" Chuck spat. "That fucker tried to hurt Blair. And yet he gets to sit at the dinner table, lording it over me when her parents can't fucking stand me."

"Oh so it's about you," Dan said, standing up.

"Yes Humphrey. It's about me. It's about me having to pass the salt to the guy who tried to rape my girlfriend and don't like you don't understand that. You were talking about vengeance the moment it happened…"

"So you gave him an all-expenses paid trip to London?" Dan asked sarcastically.

"I tried to play by the rules," Chuck said, his voice cracking and wavering with emotion. "I tried to just make him go away because that was the _measured _response. I was trying to do this "right thing" you're always preaching about. And it's bullshit, and now he is going to pay."

"So what's changed now? Now that months have passed you are going to pluck him out of exile and cause some catastrophic trouble for him? Now that the heat of anger has passed and you can be more calculating about it? Or was this the plan all along? You give him a deal that he can't ever hope to honour so that when he breaks it you have an excuse to unleash hell? Now – when Blair can't stop you?" Tired and frustrated, Dan found his voice rising until by the end of his speech he was all but shouting.

"Yes I did," Chuck spat, within a hair's breath of taking a swing at Dan. "Yes I did. And Blair didn't want it and that's too bad. Because you've got to be hear to have your preferences taken into account."

"Well I'm here," Dan said, almost cringing at how Chuck would react to that. He was pleasantly surprised when Chuck did nothing more than roll his eyes at the sentiment. Calmer now, Dan took a few tentative steps towards him. "And I'm asking you not to do something stupid."

"No one would find out," Chuck said, his arms crossed, the last vestiges of his stubbornness waning.

"Blair would," Dan said simply. "Then all this time you've spent becoming a better man for her will come to nothing. And she will never look at you the same way."

Chuck exhaled through his teeth before smirking ruefully. "I feel like we should make out or something."

Dan let out a bark of laughter, stepping back. "You just revel in making this relationship weird, don't you?"

"But I thought you said you were here for me, Humphrey," Chuck replied in mock offence. "That was a nice speech, by the way. I thought you were going to send me to a cross-roads and tell me to bow down to all the world and say to all men aloud, 'I am a murderer!'"

"Only you," Dan said ruefully, "would bother learning lines from _Crime and Punishment_ to use in daily conversation."

"Some of us have more day-to-day uses for Dostoevsky than others," Chuck shrugged, before making his way to the door waiting wordlessly for Dan to join him.

"Just out of interest – what _was_ your plan going to be?"

"I was going to have drugs planted in his bag during his stop over in Bangkok. I hear that they love installation artists in Khlong Prem Prison. After that I figured I'd bribe some justice officials to ensure a conviction and then let the asshole pass some time as the prison bicycle."

"Right," Dan said faintly, making a mental note never to cross Chuck Bass.

The moment they arrived back at the scene of the vigil, Chuck once more lost any form of animation and returned to his favoured wall to lean on. It was the strange reality of the hospital: scant moments of animation punctuating an almost mind-numbing boredom. And this from someone who allowed himself to come and go. Chuck must be going slowly insane under these electronic lights, without allowing himself to go home and shower.

It wouldn't end for Chuck until Blair's surgery ended – in one way or another. The momentary levity passed entirely from Dan's frame, and he felt himself hunching his shoulders and sitting back in his uncomfortable chair. When Eric glanced in his direction, Dan nodded reassuringly.

"I'm stopping by Chuck's suite to get him some clothes," Vanessa said, materializing next to Dan. "Do you need anything?"

He stared up at her familiar face, feeling a glow of warmth expand in his stomach. Taking her face in his hands, Dan pulled her down and kissed her softly on the lips – in a single moment breaking their tacit agreement to show no affection in front of Serena and Nate. When he pulled back, he saw from her wide smile that she appreciated the gesture. "I'm fine, thank you V."

She nodded to herself, still smiling foolishly. "Right. Okay. I'll see you later."

Dan didn't need to look over to Serena to know that she would be staring at him intensely: still locked in this silent stand-off they had developed. His mind had passed once more to the more pressing drama of the day: the life and death drama that seemed so appropriate for Chuck and Blair.

To die or not to die. To make it or not to make it. To give the happy ending or to give an ending true to life – whatever that may entail.

Dan wondered, briefly - before being horrified by his own morbidity – how he would end this story, if he had been writing it. Would he give Chuck and Blair another chance? Would he kill one of them off just to watch the other implode from the misery of it? Or would he perhaps give them a brief respite and keep them in this frenzied passion of theirs? That would be a sort of cruelty, Dan supposed. If he had his way, he would let them survive, possibly – but then make them turn around and fight off the entire world as it strove to tear them apart. He would let them have the world they shared, but everything else would be burned away.

Of course, he had always been a cruel narrator. And the human side of him ached for his friends, felt cool sweats of terror when he imagined the way Chuck would react to the sudden absence of Blair from his life. A part of him was almost curious to see how Chuck would lay waste to the world around him. But, really, it was not up to him. As always, he was to be a spectator as the forces in the wide world pressed upon them.

But one day, he knew – he knew beyond all logic and without a shred of doubt – he would write about it. He would write about all of them: he would find a way to put every nuance of their lives into writing. And only when he had learnt the words to that story, only when he could forge it into a narrative – only when he could control it enough to write it – only when it came to its bitter end would he stop. Only then would he put his pen down.

In the mean time, he had to wait with everyone else to learn how this small vignette in the epic of Chuck and Blair would end.

That day, Lily found herself waking early to a dull blue sky barely lit by the low sun, feeling a yen for porridge.

While this in itself was rather unremarkable, the nurse Lily summoned to her side looked at the older woman with such an incredulous expression on her young face that a bystander could have been forgiven for thinking that Lily had uttered some unspeakable profanity.

"With brown sugar," Lily said pointedly when the young woman did not move from her frozen position.

"R-right away Mrs. Bass."

"Mrs. Van Der Woodsen," Lily snapped. "Or Rhodes. You can call me Lily Rhodes."

The girl stood there for another beat, but Lily had already turned to face the mirror. It had been a puerile suggestion, telling the nurse to call her by her maiden name. At the very most, it was a token show of defiance to the many men who had passed through her life and given her a new name. Those marks would never really be removed; at the very least, her children bore the name Van Der Woodsen and would stand as a testament to her first husband forever. Not to mention the fact she had claimed Chuck Bass as one of her children. It had been Chuck who had booked her into the facility as "Lily Bass", in a move that was motivated both by the determination to get her exemplary treatment and as a cruel reminder that she was indebted to the Bass family.

And yet this morning the fact didn't bother her. When she sat down to the tray of porridge and the steaming bone dry cappuccino that Nurse Rodriguez placed quietly next to her bed, she found herself strangely at peace with her debts. Perhaps that was what life was, merely a series of debts and payments – I give you my beauty in exchange for your lifestyle. I give you my youth in exchange for security. I will be the perfect wife provided that you do not look at me too closely. These debts paid forward ad infinitum, until all of life could be balanced on an account. After so many high-profile marriages, Lily's account was larger than most. So many high profile, failed marriages.

She was always the perfect wife until the moment she closed the door behind her. Even the manner of her departure was perfection; she always put a great deal of effort into her appearance when she told a man she was leaving him. At times, they were unaware of what she was trying to tell them, so entranced by this woman they had somehow managed to make their own, while knowing – _knowing_ in the darkest hours of night – that she would leave anyone.

Nurse Rodriguez stood nervously nearby, waiting for some sort of dismissal.

"Thank you," she said with a faint smile. "And just to set the record straight, it's Van Der Woodsen. Lily Van Der Woodsen."

If she hadn't already been in a facility for the mentally unbalanced, she was fairly certain that Nurse Rodriguez would have booked her into one.

The porridge was as delicious as she remembered. Her mother had always said that porridge was a good meal for a big day. "It sticks to your bones," she'd say with that ironic smile of hers, always making Lily painfully aware of her failings, of the fact that her mother never needed more strength than she already had. That her mother glided through life with the steeliest of visions – enjoying clarity even through the haze of cocktails and the light blue twist of smoke from her cigarettes.

Today she would need all the strength she could pull together in her small white hands.

For some reason, as Lily straightened the rich purple of her top over her stomach, her eyes fell to her bare ring finger. It was liberating, in a way, to have no mark of a man on her hands. To belong to no one was a type of freedom. But even as she felt the thrill of the open road come upon her, she remembered that she was far from free: that she had, at least three children to worry about.

It had been a horrible thing to learn that there was one less child out in the world for her to worry about. Horrible not only because Serena had been standing there, in tears, explaining that her secret son had died in a sailing accident, while she, Lily, sat entirely dry-eyed.

"Well," Lily said flatly, feeling strangely detached. "That must have been terrible for his parents."

Serena had given her the most horrifying, appraising look she had ever seen. To be honest, Lily hadn't felt anything in particular, and when she had cried later that evening, it was for herself more than it was for the son that she had never met. What was wrong with her that she wouldn't cry to find out that she had sent her child to his death? What was wrong with her that she felt only a mild sadness, as if her son had been a stranger's and not someone she had carried in her body for nine months?

She had always suspected there was something profoundly wrong with her: something inherently cold. Of all the men she had been with, only Bart truly understood that she was, at her core, cool. He hadn't minded; he had preferred it that way. And so their marriage had been defined by a chilly aloof quality that had suited both of them. Lily had called it maturity, but some times – in her mad, frenzied moments – the hard lines of it had terrified her. When those moments came upon her, she would simply remind herself that she and Bart liked standing alone, belonging to themselves first and to their marriage second.

From the moment she had become a mother (for the second time, when things were finally done in the _proper_ order) she had made herself forever belong to someone other than herself.

Serena had been a plump little baby, constantly gorging herself on milk, and Lily had been made to feel like a walking breast pump. Although she loved the milky smell of her daughter's head when Serena lay against her chest after yet another feeding frenzy, Lily hated the feeling of losing contact with herself. She had become Mother. She had become a means of life, and part of her was terrified that she would never feel like herself again. It was about that point that she had given up on breast-feedings, weening Serena probably before than was really necessary – compensating for the pangs of guilt she felt with extravagant displays of affection, punctuated by periodic absences and visits to spas.

She hadn't breastfed Eric at all. For some reason, having a son made her remember the child she had given up without even holding. It hadn't been that way with Serena, but her delicate little Eric, so much smaller than Serena, so much quieter and less assuming: every moment with her son was a painful reminder that he wasn't her first. Even today, she wondered whether she had contributed to her Eric's sense of isolation, although she secretly thought that it was Eric's goodness that had damned him. He was too quiet, too unassuming. He didn't want to make a bother of himself, but he ached desperately to protect those around him.

Lily was relieved that Eric had Chuck, although Chuck's dynamism eclipsed Eric in most people's eyes. Lily was glad that Chuck was so fearsome, and determined to protect his younger brother. She didn't have to wonder what Eric provided for Chuck. Eric gave everything of himself.

Her wise little son, with his big heart: how undeserving she was.

Eric had been the one to call and tell her the news. Even as she listened to his calm and gentle voice, filled with amazement that she had created someone so pure, she realized something that had never occurred to her before. Blair Waldorf, who even as she spoke on the phone was being wheeled into surgery, was someone who'd had a profound influence on her family.

There had been times when Lily had felt that Serena's friendship with Blair was unhealthy, much like her own relationship with Eleanor. Since they had become friends at maternity yoga while pregnant with their girls, when Eleanor had turned to Lily and calmly informed her that she needed to straighten her legs more, that her hair should have been tied back in a high bun, and that she would love to dress Lily up in one of the dresses she had designed.

"You're like a human doll," Eleanor had said coolly, appraising her in the salute to the sun position. "If you were about two inches taller, of course."

Lily had been bemused, and in the years that followed would be simultaneously sustained and deflated by her proximity to Eleanor. From the day that Serena shoved her own pacifier into Blair's wailing mouth, Lily had known that her life would be impacted upon by Waldorfs.

In the early years, she had watched Serena exhausting herself trying to appease Blair, whose steely will and thin skin combined to make her a particularly needy best friend. There had been times when she had advised Serena to look outside of Blair for companionship, insisting that there was no door that was closed to her daughter, save the ones Serena closed on herself.

But, during Serena's tumultuous Lost Years, Blair had been more steadfast than Lily could ever have expected – and so had Eleanor. Although Lily knew that both Blair and Eleanor thought her a terrible coward when it came to motherhood, what they couldn't understand was Lily's sincere, if unfair, belief that Blair Waldorf would help her shoulder the burden of having an uncontrollable daughter. And so, Lily had run away to spas, overseas with men, constantly running from herself. While Blair made sure that Serena survived those darkest times, until Serena reached a point at which Blair could not reach her.

When that moment came, Lily breathed a guilty sigh of relief. There was one last Child-God reaching for her, claiming her. Serena ran away, just like her mother always had. And Lily was almost glad. There had to be something wrong with her. She knew that Blair thought so – she could see the look of disapproval in those wide dark eyes.

For the first time, Lily wanted to feel heavy, to feel burdened by those chubby baby hands that wanted-wanted-wanted. She wished that Serena and Eric were babies again; she wanted to feel the soft down of their heads. She longed for that very captivity that had filled her with terror in her younger years. Although those child-rearing days were long behind her, she had decided to become a mother again: this time, to a full-formed and arrogant man who only barely countenanced her.

Stepping outside the Ostroff Centre for the first time since her breakdown, Lily took in a deep lungful of the morning air.

Rufus had offered to pick her up, but she relished the feeling of disappearing into a large crowd. The pull of anonymity had always been her greatest pleasure. To feel free, she had always been ready to leave anyone. But now it was time to grow up.

The outside world was a strange thing, after so many hours locked in a hospital waiting room, and Nate relished the feeling of the sun on his face.

His instructions were simple but of vital importance: he was to get bagels and real coffee. Cyrus had been more serious than Nate had ever seen him when instructing him on the key to a good bagel. Luckily, Lily's surprising arrival at the hospital had caused enough excitement in the man that Nate had escaped the lecture after only a few minutes.

It was hard to know how Chuck felt about seeing Lily – blindingly white and blonde in a room overwhelmingly populated by brunettes – join them. Serena had rushed over to her mother, of course. She could never dampen her pathological need to take people into her arms and warm them. And Lily looked so fragile in the harsh sunlight. Eric had smiled at her proudly and patted her arm.

"Are you feeling well, Lily?" Chuck asked with a formality that surprised all of them.

"I am just fine, Chuck," Lily responded with an equal measure of stiltedness.

Then, they merely nodded at each other with the sort of tacit understanding that only comes between people who have seen each other's lowest points. Although her steps were tentative, and she seemed threatened by the size of the crowd, there was a perceptible loosening seen in both Eleanor and Harold. They had, after all, known Lily for a very long time. Knowing her, and recognising the genuineness of her concern for Blair, they warmed to all the teenagers who were marooned on the plastic seats. Having her here also leant Chuck a measure of legitimacy; for the first time he didn't have to fight for information. Lily was more than willing to act as a diplomat. She seemed almost preternaturally determined to take care of his wellbeing.

"I'd like you to have some food," Lily said carefully, touching Chuck lightly on the forearm.

Nate saw immediately that he was biting back his instinct to snap at her for suffocating him. Demonstrating a rare level of restraint, Chuck just nodded. "I'll eat, but I'm not leaving."

"Of course you're not," Lily said with a fondness that made Chuck look at her strangely.

And so Nate found himself returning to Lennox Hill with his arms full of bagels, with his stomach slightly upset by the smell of smoked salmon.

He found Serena standing in the makeshift garden outside the front doors, her eyes closed, with her face angled towards the blue sky. It had been a close thing, but ultimately, the sun had won out against the clouds. Summer was definitely coming. Nate smiled to himself, remembering how frisky Serena was in the warmer months. She must have sensed him standing nearby because at that moment she opened her eyes and offered him one of her mega-watt smiles – one that just demanded a response.

Nate felt a swoop in his stomach. "Soaking up some rays?" he asked lamely, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

"You know I never miss an opportunity," she grinned. "I'm probably going to have the skin of an eighty year old by twenty-five, but c'est la vie."

It was then that Nate noticed her bare arms and the little cotton bud that was attached the crook of her arm. "Did one of the nurses attack you?"

She smiled bashfully, pressing her hand to her arm. Nate frowned at even this unconscious attempt to hide things from him. He knew he was reading too much into the simple gesture of covering a bandaid, but he couldn't help it. Their relationship had somehow wandered into the shadows of what was unspoken, and he was sick to death of it.

"I was talking to one of the nurses. I have O+ blood – it's the best one for blood donations. So I thought I'd just donate some while we were all here."

Nate watched the way her face registered every emotion. Sometimes it overwhelmed him, the transcendent lightness of her entire bearing. Seeing her out here in the sun was almost too much: she was too close to perfection. He knew that he was a goner whenever he saw her long hair or heard her tinkling laugh.

"It agrees with you," he said suddenly.

She frowned in confusion. "What does?"

Nate gestured awkwardly around him. "Everything."

In spite of herself, she offered him a bashful grin. "Maybe you should come over here and say that."

Neither of them really understood the hesitation that accompanied their attempts at speaking to each other as a couple, although Nate blamed the fact they had never really sat down and talked about what they were to each other. Standing outside the hospital, with both their exes inside, and while he held a pound of smoked fish, he knew that this wasn't the time. So he walked over and kissed her on the lips.

He was frisky in the summer as well.

He and Serena were alike in that way. Although Chuck and Blair had always dutifully adjusted their wardrobes (with usual panache) to whatever summer required of them, he knew that neither of them were really comfortable in the bright sunlight of June and July. Serena and Nate, in contrast, hungered after the warm months.

It was probably the worst possible time for this conversation, but for some reason, Nate had the sense that if he didn't bring up those thoughts that had been floating around in his head, they would be destined never to speak of it.

"Listen, Serena," he started. "I was wondering whether you'd like to talk…you know…when you have time – we should probably talk about – you know…"

"God Nate," Serena laughed thoughtlessly. "You're stuttering like Dan."

And just like that, both of them froze. There it was: the one thing they were never allowed to acknowledge during those nights of clawing at each other's clothes in motels in places far form home.

"Nate – I," Serena started.

"No, it's fine. I mean we can say his name. It's fine," he said tightly.

The sun didn't seem quite as delicious. Serena sighed, shoving her hands into her jean pockets, her eyes narrowed in focus on a nameless shrub in the garden she had turned into a place to sunbathe. When she spoke, her voice was solemn. She didn't sound like Serena. She sounded older and Nate felt a strange sensation of fear at her tone. Because her aging voice seemed to tell him that she was slipping away from him. At any moment he may turn around and find her gone having never advanced beyond the unspoken hook-up stage.

"It's not fine, Nate," she said tiredly. "It's never going to be just you and me. First we were betraying Blair and then - "

"Then we were betraying Dan," Nate finished for her, shifting his groceries in his hands.

She peered at him from under her eyelashes. "I know you want to talk about what we are. And I want to talk about it too. But I think I have to talk to Dan first."

Nate would have run his hands through his hair in frustration if it hadn't been for his grocery burden. "Why?" he asked petulantly. "He's dating Vanessa now. I can tell."

Serena tried to hide the hurt that crossed her face, but they both knew it was written across her face. "I know."

"So is that it? You want to wait and see whether he'll take you back, and if he doesn't then I'm in with a shot?"

He was mildly gratified to see another hurt look chase the other from her face. It felt good to know that he could hurt her in some way. But when she spoke, her voice was back to normal and he was full of remorse for his cruel words. It was one thing to attack someone slipping from his fingers. It was quite another to hurt Serena.

"I'm just saying that until it's just you and me we can't even start to talk about what we mean to each other. I just feel guilty all the time, Nate. It feels like sneaking around and I hate it and I need Dan to at least start forgiving me before I can forgive myself. And I know that may not make sense to you, but that's just how I feel."

"It makes sense," Nate said quietly, only lying a very little bit.

Her face softened into a smile and Nate could have sworn that the sun itself was brightening. It was true – _everything_ really did agree with her. She made as if to walk inside, but Nate suddenly couldn't let her leave like that. Even though he didn't quite know whether he really meant it, it seemed important to say something to show her that he couldn't be pushed aside if Dan forgave her.

"You know I'm in, right?" he said nervously. "You know that this…this thing between us. I'm in – if you are."

Even as he said it, he wasn't sure that it was the entire truth. And a part of him knew that she was just as uncertain as he was, but he felt a thrill of relief when she offered him another heart-stopping smile.

"I know, Nate," she said before hurrying to the sliding doors.

"Good then," he said to no one in particular.

With a resolute nod, Nate marched back into the hospital, wondering when he would ever get the smell of smoked salmon out of his clothes.

For the first time in a few days, Harold found himself relaxing slightly. The doctor's report had been good: the surgery was now in its final stages and would soon be over. Blair's vital signs were good, and almost imperceptibly, the intensity of the gathering in the waiting room seemed to lessen. There were more smiles now, more secret glances. Eleanor had even brought swathes of colour that she and Cyrus were considering for the walls in the kitchen. He thought she should go with the midnight blue. Roman liked purple. Things were going back to normal, he supposed.

Only one face was no less creased with worry – and even though Harold was loathe to admit it, he knew that Chuck would not rest or leave the building until Blair was awake and speaking his name. That reality was starting to sting less than it had. He found his eyes constantly wandering to Chuck's face, noting the lines of worry around his eyes.

He had been regarding Chuck for so long that it was almost surreal to find himself suddenly in such close proximity to him. It was as if a figure in a painting had reached out of the frame to offer him a high-five. And yet here he was, standing outside the doors of the hospital, smoking his first cigarette in six months with his daughter's boyfriend.

When Chuck had taken a deep breath and asked whether Harold would accompany him outside for a cigarette, he had been uncertain what to expect. Whatever it was he had been expecting, it was not the silence that had filled the wide gulf between them, as they stood as far apart as was possible while still qualifying as standing with each other.

Harold took another deep inhalation from the large American cigarette. He had, at most, been an idle social smoker, but Roman, like most models, had chain-smoked to fill the boring waits between photographs. In France, Harold had enjoyed taking those short, thin French cigarettes in his hand. He'd smoked one cigarette – just one – after their daily lunches. When he saw that Roman was unable to stop at just one, however, he had instituted a draconian no-smoking rule at the vineyard.

But, he had taken the cigarette that Chuck offered. And he'd even bitten back the typically parental comment that had been brewing within him. After the initial head-rush for the first drag, Harold had found himself remembering the less pleasant aspects of smoking, and had already started thinking about how he was going to get rid the smell from his breath and between his index and middle fingers without Roman noticing. He'd buy an entire packet and smoke it in Eleanor's living room – and Harold would never hear the end of it.

"You look tired," Harold said finally, irritated with himself for breaking the silence.

"Well I like to look good for you, Harold," Chuck replied, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

"I'm going to let that slide because you haven't slept properly for days," Harold said with the slightest smile he could muster.

Chuck shrugged, as if he didn't particularly care either way.

"Chuck," Harold said, after another long minute of silence had passed between them. "Did you have something to say to me? Or are you just trying to finish me off by giving me lung cancer?" He had meant the last question as a joke, but he knew it had come out more aggressively than intended. He just didn't seem capable of striking the right tone with Chuck. And having started out so aggressively with the boy, he didn't know how to pair down his aggression.

"If often wondered what it would be like," Chuck said finally, staring suspiciously at the clear sky. "To actually kill someone. Of course, even in my head I was always too big a pussy to actually do it with my bare hands. That makes it stranger, in a way. Knowing that it would be a few phone calls and shift of money into new accounts to set the machinery in motion. Then – what? You ask for some kind of confirmation? You ask for pictures? Although pictures can be doctored, so you'd need something tenable. A trophy."

Harold raised an eyebrow, determined to appear unfazed by his musings. "This is a fairly unconventional attempt at man-to-man bonding."

Chuck snorted, closing his eyes. "Are you a violent men, Harold?"

"No."

"I thought not. I thought you would have taken a swing at me by now if you had been."

"Are you a violent man, Charles?" Harold asked wearily.

"I didn't think so. But I suppose there are types of violence, aren't there? There are shades of violence. I could imagine setting into motion a series of events leading to another's death. But people do that all the time."

Tired of the boy's cryptic tone, Harold yawned with flourish and threw the cigarette butt onto the ground. "I really don't think that now is an appropriate time to talk about death."

"Of course not," Chuck responded bitterly. "It makes people uncomfortable. No one wants to be the one to look at death. They think it's catching, I suppose."

"Can you please get to the point?" Harold asked tiredly.

Chuck finally turned his eyes to Harold's face, for the first time since they had come outside. Harold wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do under this sudden glaring examination, so he just stood there, running a hand down his purple shirt. When Chuck spoke, it was in a surprisingly matter-of-fact voice. "I don't tell people things. And you are the last person that Blair would want me to talk to about this. But I'm going to do it anyway."

"Okay," Harold said quietly, feeling a swoop of foreboding.

"Earlier this year, Blair struck up a friendship with Aaron Rose - "

"Cyrus' son?"

Chuck nodded, waving a hand dismissively, annoyed to be interrupted. "They were…_friends_," – he scrunched his nose in distaste – "until one night when he went to your house and showed Blair a series of pictures that he had taken of her without her knowledge. When she told him to leave, he attacked her. He tried to rape her. But she fought him off."

Chuck barely seemed to notice the way Harold ran a hand over his brow and swallowed repeatedly. His eyes were darker than Harold had ever seen them. Something about Chuck's straight back sent thrills of fear down Harold's spine. He looked positively dangerous, capable of any foul deed imaginable.

For the first time, Harold saw the upside to having his daughter date someone as dangerous as Chuck Bass. There was nothing someone like Chuck wouldn't do. And here he stood, Blair's protector under the too-warm sun.

"I must have arrived only a few minutes after it happened. I was too late to do a fucking thing. She wouldn't have told me if I hadn't seen the bruises."

Harold strained to locate his voice. "What did you do?"

Chuck smiled grimly. "I would have done it, I think. That night, I think I would have perpetrated violence. To be honest, I'm glad she stopped me. Because that night I would have done it." He looked at Harold, pausing to take the measure of Blair's father, but ultimately deciding that this point, there was no point sugar-coating the story. "But instead, I basically bribed him to leave the country. I did nothing, really. I let him get away with it."

For a moment, Harold considered saying something snide; he considered agreeing with the boy. But it would have been farcical. To question Chuck's handling of the situation would have been unseemly, when he could see it on Chuck's face that he was not sabre-rattling. The night Blair had been attacked – _Blair had been attacked_, he thought incredulously – he would have beaten Aaron to the point of permanent damage, and even then he may not have stopped.

The strangest thing was that Harold felt relieved that this boy he purported to dislike had not followed that path. He was glad that in that particular battle against the shadows on Chuck's soul, the higher angels had been successful. He was relieved that Chuck hadn't done something that would have led him on a different path.

"Why did you tell me this?"

Chuck was really, bone-wearingly tired. Closing his eyes for a moment, he wondered whether the hospital staff would allow him to sleep in that uncomfortable chair next to Blair's bed that night. Even if she were asleep, it would have been comforting to see her form in front of him. It would have been comforting to know that she hadn't been erased, that her heart was beating – that her breath still moved in and out of her lungs.

"Because I didn't want to carry the knowledge around by myself anymore," Chuck admitted. "And as an insurance policy."

"An insurance policy?" Harold asked, confused.

"To keep Blair safe. And to stop me from…" he stopped short when he noticed the sliding automatic door open.

Even though they waited for her to speak, Harold knew the instant he saw her face what had happened. Only Chuck, in his state of near-exhaustion, hanging on by the thinnest of threads, waited for confirmation. He needed to be certain.

"She's awake," Eleanor said, so lightly that her voice seemed to disappear in the warm air.

Harold scarcely had time to process the news before Chuck was sprinting back into the building.

"Let's give him a few minutes," Harold said stiffly.

"Well this is a new tune," Eleanor commented, raising an eyebrow.

Harold just shrugged. "A momentary lapse. Let's not tell anyone."

[1] Taken from the opening to Donna Tartt's _The Secret History_ (one of my favourite books).

[2] A quote from Season One of the _West Wing_. I've been watching instead of writing – sorry!


	19. Chapter 19: Lady Lazarus

**Chapter Nineteen:**** Lady Lazarus**

_I have done it again._

_One year in every ten_

_I manage it – _

_A sort of walking miracle, my skin_

_Bright as a Nazi lampshade,_

_My right foot_

_A paperweight,_

_My face a featureless, fine_

_Jew linen._

_Peel off the napkin _

_O my enemy,_

_Do I terrify? – _

_The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?_

_The sour breath_

_Will vanish in a day,_

_Soon, soon the flesh the grave cave ate will be_

_At home on me_

_And I a smiling woman._

_I am only thirty._

_And like the cat I have nine times to die… _

- Sylvia Plath, "Lady Lazarus"

When people who had not been there would come to talk about it, she found that they would never get it quite right.

"My what a terrible ordeal you went through," they'd exclaim, flush with the triumph of saying the most appropriate thing. They would hold their wine glasses close to their faces and nod seriously at her, unaware of the pedestrian nature of their responses.

And each time it happened, even as she nodded demurely, Blair would know that they hadn't understood it at all. They hadn't even come close. Because although the road to recovery was long and arduous, marked by frustrated tears and inordinate exhaustion, Blair knew that what they were talking about was the event itself and the surgeries that followed straight after.

For her, the entire ordeal had passed like a long night of dreamless sleep.

The "ordeal", as they called it, had been occurring on the outside. It had probably been an ordeal for the team of surgeons, who worked into the late hours, fuelled by the feeling of holding in their hands the life of someone so many years their junior. It had played itself out in the waiting room outside, between her parents and her friends. It had been speculated upon by the world outside of the hospital, in Gossip Girl posts – ("Ohmygod it's so like in _Mean Girls_ when Regina gets hit by a bus," or "Who will get her clothes if she dies?") – and in the halls of Constance – ("I bet Nelly Yuki is gunning for valedictorian now"). But most of all, the ordeal had occurred neatly within the confines of Chuck Bass's head.

She had never fancied herself a selfless person; she knew that as recently as two years ago she would have collected sympathy like flowers to put by her bedside. She would have sighed at the right moments: just enough to inspire sympathy. And she would have sent Nate on pointless errands to seek out things she didn't need in the least.

She had changed in some essential way, then. Because when she finally awoke to feel her toes moving and to feel light vying against darkness behind her eyelids, her first thought was of Chuck Bass. She had never fancied herself a selfless person, but when it came to Chuck she was a web of sympathies and empathies, reaching out towards him. Even though she felt the fear of death still nibbling at the corners of the room, her first cogent thought was about Chuck. She was relieved that the world didn't have one less person who loved him. And she was full of regret for putting him through this entire – what was the word – _ordeal_.

Because, really, Blair had no idea what it had been like. Blair couldn't conceive of those hours when her life teetered between carrying on and disappearing like breath into the sky on a cold morning. Piecing together what had happened became a sort of mania for her; she made all of her friends tell her about their experiences, and more, to describe to her what it had been like when Chuck had almost collapsed under the pressure of it.

It would take a while before Chuck himself was willing to talk about it, and even then he would find her inquiries irritating. "You think people being water-boarded like revisiting the experience?" he joked each time she began her line of questioning.

She would roll her eyes and say something sarcastic, but then he would turn his haunted eyes on her and she would know that he was not exaggerating, that he wasn't joking. And she would feel as if she hadn't been there at all, and as if it had been something that Chuck had gone through – a war, a far-off battle while she stayed safely indoors, reading the letters he sent her from the Front.

But should would never be able to help herself. "While you were waiting for my…_thing_ to be over. What did you think about?"

He would be there and not there, and emptiness would fill his eyes until she was afraid. He could never be frank with her in these moments, even though they both know what he had done to pass the time. He had tortured himself: he had prophesised her death.

But it was something they would never say to each other. She, because she hated to make him relive it. He, because he knew she hated him being cruel to himself. And so they would settle on the safety of a joke.

"I spent the whole time trying to figure out what the hell _Mulholland Drive_ was about," he said with false breeziness.

"Oh I see," she'd say, looking at his proud jaw and bruised eyes and feeling that she may weep with remorse for making him think she could not be here anymore. "So it wasn't a total waste of time."

"No, it was very productive," he'd say, but the lines of his face would still be distracted and indistinct, as if she was viewing him from a great height. So she would reach out for his hand and kiss his palm, or fiddle with a button on his waistcoat to remind him that he was in the world with her – not in his head.

"So you figured it out?" she'd ask, just for the sake of drawing him back from the great height he had soared to. Back to where she could see him clearly.

"No," Chuck conceded, before drawing her close to him and inhaling the scent of her. It was always this way when she made him once more scrape along the edge of the painful memory of her near death. He would parry with her, he would be light on his feet and avoid her questions, but then he would be filled with the irrepressible need to hold her close and to know that she was still here.

A part of her liked feeling his neediness, and would take grim delight in the knowledge that he couldn't bear to be without her. But like all cruel feelings, it receded to leave only a bitter taste in her mouth. She would invariably begin tugging at his clothes, determined to make contact with his skin – wanting to reassure herself that she wasn't a brute for forcing him to feel this way about her. Wanting to chase these dark thoughts away with the welcome weight of Chuck balanced above her, unable to form words but kissing her regardless.

And when he asked her what she had thought about, when she was under the anaesthetic of surgery, she had only one answer for him.

"You," she said.

"Liar," he'd say with a crooked smile.

"_You,"_ she'd say again, so that he had to believe it because of her dark eyes and her perfectly matched mouth.

His kisses were always ravenous when she told him that. They left her breathless. He made her tell him again and again. He had been disappointed, she knew, when she had admitted that the first time, after the car had thrown her up into the air before the ground had claimed her once more, she had known nothing but an impenetrable darkness. Things were different, though, the second time.

It was different this time.

Because this time there were sounds and images and memories vying for the position closest to the front of her resting mind. For a few minutes, Blair lay there as if she were still unconscious, suddenly achingly aware of the high ceilings of her mind and the way her fingertips felt against the sterile hospital sheets. It would have been pleasant to pass some time this way: to fool the nurses who made those dim and industrious noises into thinking that she wasn't there.

But, of course, it was inevitable that her mind would turn too quickly to thoughts of the world she had clung onto so stubbornly. And to think of him most of all.

He could have grafted himself on the inside of her eyelids; even when she was in the deep sleep of surgery, those quicksilver memories that passed before her too quickly to grasp took his shape, so that thoughts of him filled her from inside. Even then, she fancied that it was only because of his weight pulling her down that she didn't lose touch with the world entirely.

Or was that his thought? It was difficult to find the point where he ended and she began in this hospital bed with a growing awareness of the deep-seated ache in her chest and the sharp pain down her leg.

And so she had opened her eyes, wanting to see him. But all she had seen were rubber tubes and a needle in the crook her arm. A nurse was studiously checking her leg while another chattered on and on about her date the night before. Irritated at being ignored, she tested her voice. After a few tries, she found the power of speech that had disappeared somewhere between this room and the operating theatre.

"I'm awake now," she said simply.

There had been dead silence meeting her proclamation, before a great flurry of activity that had forced her to close her eyes against the onslaught as one nurse left to find her family and the other fussed around her room, checking her vitals and adjusting the intravenous drip that nourished her. Blair vaguely recognised her from before, although even if she hadn't, the woman assured her repeatedly that Blair should call her Grace.

"I can read the name tag," Blair said testily.

Grace seemed taken aback for a moment, recalling a similar brusqueness in the young man who had slept next to her bed. Since that day, she had made a special point of tending to Blair's needs as Chuck waited for her outside. She felt charged with the duty, somehow. It had been a welcome distraction, and the mother in her had enjoyed tying Blair's hair back and making sure that her bandages were fresh and clean. A part of her had imagined that when the girl woke up, she would ask Grace to paint her nails for her.

"Right, good then," she said lamely, feeling foolish, reminding herself that she was a professional and that the girl that had inspired such passion in the young man who had wanted her coated entirely in metal – "good, that's stronger" – was no one in particular to Grace. "Now I want you to relax while I check your blood pressure."

Comforted by the restored balance of power, Blair settled back, trying to ignore Grace's attempts at chattiness as a steady stream of medical practitioners paraded in and out of her room.

Blair couldn't quite be sure what it was that told her that Chuck had arrived. The moment the door swung open, she'd had her eyes closed, sick to death at the poking and prodding and feeling herself recoil from any of the well-meaning strangers who placed their hands on her forehead in comfort. But in that moment, something in the room shifted and she opened her eyes at exactly the right time.

_This _had been how she had hoped to awaken – not with the lame proclamation and the chatter-chatter-chatter of bored shift workers.

Chuck stood at the door, staring at her with an inscrutable expression on his face. For a while, her eyes devoured his form: the rumpled shirt, the sore red of his eyes, and the way one side of his collar was sticking up towards his ear. .

"Chuck," she said, involuntarily – a type of exhalation.

"Maybe we'll just give you a minute," said the grey-haired doctor, before shooing the rest of his cohort out of the room.

Chuck didn't seem to notice that anything had changed. Still he just stared at her with a blank look on his face and with his jaw clenched, his hands sitting uselessly at his sides. He might have been trying to speak, because a few times his mouth seemed to form words, but no sound came out. And still he stared at her.

"Say something," she commanded, embarrassed by the silence, embarrassed by the fervour of his gaze and shrinking under the force of it.

He shook his head mutely, walking to her bedside. For a moment, his breath seemed to hitch in his chest. With the most carefully controlled of movements, he knelt next to her bed, not minding that his pants would be ruined. Blair had to bite back the urge to tell him to sit on the chair. It was a strange sort of moment, really. Blair wondered at his silence, wondered why he still hadn't kissed her, wondered how it could be that days had passed since she had last seen him, when it had seemed like only an hour ago.

It was strange, too, not to be able to read his expression. Not knowing what he was thinking made her nervous – and he still hadn't touched her. "Say something," she said again.

"I can't," he said finally.

Just like that, any vestige of self-restraint fell away and the next thing she knew his face was buried against her shoulder and pressing into the pillow, and his shoulders were shaking with the force of tears that so rarely found their way to his eyes. Her chest was aching from the sudden weight upon it, but no power on earth could have compelled her to ask him to lighten the load on her. She relished the feeling of his tears; she relished the sight of the shrouded places in Chuck's psyche on display for anyone who walked into the room to see.

But, a part of her was terrified at t the sight of his great undoing. It was too much to know that she was capable of inspiring these feelings in him. It was too much to know what her sudden absence would do to him. And it was too much to feel the same way.

"You came back," he choked out, wiping angrily at his tears, feeling the sudden bite of humiliation.

"Of course I did," she said, her eyes tearing up, remembering a ghost of this exact same conversation, in a much less sterile environment than this hospital. It was only then that Blair truly understood how close she had come to death. Reaching out a shaking hand, losing track herself at the unguarded expression on Chuck's face, she ran her finger over the plane of his face, feeling his high cheekbones and the stubble of his jaw line. He closed his eyes against her touch, as Blair lay amazed and horrified at her power over him. Until she realized that her own tears were falling at that the ache in her chest had nothing to do with her operation.

"That would have been the worst part," she said with a kind of morbid wonderment.

"What would?" he asked.

"Never being able to touch you again," she said simply, her hand on his cheek.

Her words seemed to remind him of something; he straightened his shoulders and wiped the last of his tears away. Demonstrating the remarkable self-restraint that had come with years of practice, Blair watched as he visibly pulled himself together. She watched as he reached out his hand to take hers, before lifting it to his lips and kissing each one of her fingers. Although he didn't say it, Blair knew that she had seen the last of his terrifying vulnerability.

That was how it was with them; the moment he sensed Blair's dawning horror at her brush with mortality, he knew that he would have to stand even stronger. Although she cherished those moments that he let her be strong and see those parts of himself that he tucked away from view, she was relieved that the balance had shifted and that now she could rest, certain in the knowledge that Chuck would take care of her, the way she had when his father had died. They were that way to each other: a perfect counter-balance. Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck.

"You came back," he said. But this time, he was not seeking assurance. He was reassuring her.

"I came back," she whispered.

Then, finally, he kissed her and Blair felt the shadowy threat of death disappear from view.

"I must say, Lily," Jack Bass said in a measured tone. "It is nice to see you looking like your old self."

Lily swallowed a thrill of annoyance at his words, feelings the flush of vulnerability that comes with knowing that your weaknesses are there for the world to see. For the life of her, Lily couldn't understand what it was that made those things that were so simple for other people, so incredibly difficult for her. But, then a quiet voice in her head would remind her that there some things that she was good at.

She was good at loving impossible men. Perhaps that was something she and Constance Bass had in common. Even as the thought formed, Lily knew that this was an impossible comparison; while Constance may have broken the vows of her marriage with Jack - in a flurry of passion and the swoop of a nervous stomach - she had never walked away from the union. Maybe she had stayed for the money; although Lily stubbornly insisted that she herself was not attracted to wealth, it was a lot easier to fall in love with someone when you are alone in a penthouse looking upon Venice. No one looks lovelier than when they are lit by candles at a well-set table.

But, Lily knew in that strange empathic way that women have, that in the end, Constance had stayed with Bart for the sake of her unborn son. She had stayed because she was, in her own misguided way, as constant as her name suggested. While Bart might hate her for the betrayal, she had been willing to silence the woman in her, who would have had her follow her heart, for the sake of the security of Charles Bass.

He had been born, Lily supposed, to be a king. Although she didn't know for sure, Lily imagined that Constance's final exhalation had been her son's regal name. She had never asked Bart, because by the time their relationship began, his hostility to his first wife was almost palpable, more ferocious because of the intensity of the love he had once had for her. Lily preferred the scene as it played out in her mind, anyway.

The boy-king, whose mother had sacrificed herself for his sake, even before her death.

For years in his adolescence he had disdained her gift: challenged fate to allow him to keep living at a tempo that was unsustainable. For years, Charles had insisted that his name was Chuck Bass, that he was answerable to no one and that his mother's sacrifice was in fact a mark of his own destructiveness. It had been easier to imagine himself as an executioner than it had been to imagine that his mother had loved him enough to die while giving him life. And so he had made it his business to fritter away her gift, to treat life as something worthless – no more than a scarf tied around his neck or a drink at a bar.

He might have gone on this way forever. But fate had another plan. It threw Blair Waldorf into his path and sat back to watch his world implode.

He had changed; Lily could see it. After her reprieve from life, unable to shake off the feelings that she was no more than a spectre, Lily found that she was able to walk undetected among the most important people in her life. And so, in the jubilation that followed Blair's awakening, Lily had found herself in a unique position, able to watch while remaining unseen.

When Harold and Eleanor finally tired of waiting for Chuck to finish greeting their daughter, Lily had watched the silent understanding that passed between Harold and Chuck when the door opened to show Chuck sitting as close to Blair's bed as he could, both his hands clasping on of hers, kissing her knuckles and staring at her with a heart-stopping look on his face. When Chuck had seen Harold and Eleanor pause for a moment, uncertain and thrown by the intimacy of the image before them, he had nodded seriously at them, before leaning close to Blair's ear and whispering something inaudible. He then stood up, kissed her on the palm and left the room.

It was a simple sum for Chuck: they had met him halfway by giving him the honour of being the first one to see her, and so he would leave her side long enough for them to have their due. Lily was proud of him.

He couldn't stand to be far from her, even while she lay under the watchful gaze of her parents, and so he had stood in the hallway, leaning on the wall. Another person may have felt the need to fidget, or bounce a foot. But Chuck saw no need in appearing occupied in his stillness. He didn't pretend to read, he didn't pull out his telephone to check non-existent messages. He just stood there, perfectly still, staring ahead of him

That was how Serena found him.

Lily felt strangely distant from the scene, regarding her beautiful daughter as she stood nervously before Chuck. Lily felt a strange kinship with his point of view, imagining for a moment that she could read his thoughts in his stillness. She saw how he barely registered an expression as he noticed the sudden incursion of his adopted-sister in his personal space. For the first time, Lily saw how damaged their relationship had become; she had always imagined that they would one day find their way towards the sort of close sibling relationship that Chuck so clearly had with Eric. It made her sad to see the lack of warmth between the pair; there had been a time when they had been close. There had been various times when Lily had heard Chuck lead a stumbling Serena down the hall after a night of debauchery – sometimes with Blair leading the way and with Nate holding up her other side, but sometimes without anyone else, showing a strange initiative to protect his friend.

One night, when they were fifteen, Lily had heard the door open and the shuffle of feet that told her Serena had been dutifully delivered home in a state of intoxication. Lily knew that another parent would have jumped out at her: another parent would have held her to account. But Lily had always preferred to imagine herself as allowing Serena to test her own boundaries – she liked to imagine that she was giving her daughter the space to grow. But really, she had been scared to face her: she had been glad to leave it to her friends to ensure that things didn't get out of hand. Even then, Lily trusted Chuck Bass to look out for her, if for no other reason than Blair Waldorf would have insisted upon it.

That night, though, Blair hadn't been with the pair. Lily always knew when Blair was leading the troupe; she barked instructions in a whisper, while Chuck offered sarcastic comments in a voice perfectly audible. That would lead to Blair harassing him for his lack of stealth skills, before Serena announced that she was going to throw up, leaving them along in their squabbling. But tonight, it was just Chuck and Serena, and Lily listening to the sound of her half-wild daughter arguing with her protector.

"I'm _not_ drunk, Chuck," Serena said petulantly in her melodic voice. "I want to _dance._"

"Well you should feel free to perform a private dance for me," Chuck responded, but his reply was punctuated by gasping breaths as he half-carried Serena down the hallway.

"Gross," Serena moaned.

"A chilling riposte. Who says blondes aren't witty?"

"You just prefer brunettes," Serena sing-songed.

"What are you talking about? I'm completely indiscriminate." Serena giggled, and by the sounds of things, twirled into a painting in the hallway. "Serena, if you just try to walk you'd make this a lot easier. Don't touch that."

"You don't just prefer brunettes," Serena continued, ignoring his orders. "You prefer one brunette. My friend the brunette."

"You're drunk," Chuck said dismissively, a note of warning in his voice. "And trust me when I say I've had my fill of Georgie the psycho-bitch for a lifetime. So unless she puts rohypnol my drink – which I wouldn't put passed her – that option is off the table."

"Not Georgie," Serena responded in that teasing voice that clearly made Chuck want to poke himself in the eye. Lily imagined Serena tracing a teasing line down Chuck's chest – imagined Serena taking the liberties that had always come so easily to her, with her coquettish smile and long blonde hair. "Blair."

A telling beat of silence.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Okay. Think what you like. I'm just saying…that…you know…in wine the thing…"

Chuck almost audibly rolled his eyes. "_In vino veritas_?"

"That's it! That's it!" Serena crowed.

"Serena would you shut _up_?"

"I think I'm going to be sick."

Too many times had Serena's nights ended in this sort of display. In the morning, sick with a hangover but smug with the belief that she had once more gotten away with her indiscretions. And Lily would rationalise that teenagers always test boundaries, that there was nothing to worry about, and that her friends would make sure that she was alright. That Serena was under the protection of someone as worldly as Chuck Bass and as ferocious as Blair Waldorf was some comfort.

She had been wrong about so many things with her children, it shouldn't surprise her that she had been wrong about the lifetime friendship between Chuck and Serena. There was no sign of it between them that day in the hospital, as Serena searched for the words to say and Chuck waited patiently without giving an inch.

Serena broke the silence; she never understood how to hold onto power. Chuck looked only mildly interested, staring over Serena's shoulder as she spoke. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm glad you're with Blair," Serena said stiltedly. "And that I think you guys are a great couple."

Chuck glanced at her, standing so conscientiously before him, her hands clasped in front of her. Her face was so full of compassion that Lily knew Chuck would be offended by it. In her strange state of empathy, Lily could see the thoughts form in Chuck's usually inscrutable mind. What right did Serena have to stand there and offer her blessing? What right did Serena have to act like Chuck had been auditioning for the role of boyfriend to Blair this entire time? Perhaps when Lily and Bart were engaged, she'd had a right to occupy the moral high ground and stare down at him with the entire force of his mistakes gleaming from her spiteful eyes. But not anymore.

Lily knew that since then the timbre of their friendship group had changed. Serena and Nate had disappeared, and Serena had ceased to be the most significant person in Blair's life. She had given up her position so easily, with no explanation. And only, from the outside, could she see that she was not irreplaceable. Only from the outside could she see that Chuck had replaced her in Blair's life, and that she could never really hope to get back that youthful friendship she'd had. She would have to adjust and fight for her place in it, now. And to even attempt to do so without Chuck's blessing would be an impossible task. Had he been another person, Chuck might have felt sorry for her. But in truth it was only the sympathies he had developed in the past, the ties of the family he was beginning to trust, and the towering love he felt for her best friend that stopped his tongue from forming cruel and accurate words. Instead, he offered her a tight and insincere smile, one that embarrassed Lily on Serena's behalf.

"Thank you," he said flatly.

Lily knew at that instant that Serena was not as oblivious as she appeared; she could see that Serena felt the flush of embarrassment that comes with ideas above one's station. It was humiliating for her to have to ask Chuck for permission to return to the inner sanctum. Worse was the knowledge that Chuck was achingly aware of his power. For a moment, Lily wondered whether Chuck would lash out. But, strangely, he held his tongue.

"Chuck," Serena said, finally, and Lily was relieved to see that her natural warmth was shining through once more. Serena didn't do powerplay; Serena did sincerity. And when Serena let her heart speak, even the most brutal tyrant would have to listen to her. "I want to fix this. I want to fix all of this."

"Fix all of what?" Chuck said cautiously.

"Me and Blair," Serena said simply. "But also – you and me. I want us to be friends again, Chuck. Like we used to be."

Chuck offered her a surprisingly serious look, shrugging with a hint of sadness in his shoulders. "Serena sometimes people just stop being friends. And there's no way to get things back to how they were. And to even try is false."

"It doesn't have to be how it was, Chuck. It can be…you know. Better. We've all been through too much to just give up on each other. The four of us don't have to be like every other group of friends from high school. We can special. We _are_ special."

Despite her hopeful look, Serena must have known Chuck well enough to know that he would never agree to anything right off the bat. He would need to mull over things for a while, to run down the clock until the other party is convinced that he will refuse.

"It's not just four of us," Chuck said finally. "There's Humphrey and Vanessa as well. Fix the drama in your camp and then maybe we'll have something to talk about."

Serena nodded mutely, squeezing his arm before walking back to the waiting room, where Nate and Eric waited for their turn to see Blair. Nate had become surprisingly emotional when he found out that Blair had awoken, and the sight of his worry and relief had filled Serena with an inexpressible tenderness towards him. She found herself spending more and more time in his presence, warming herself in the simplicity of his outlook. But she still knew that until she fixed things with Dan, there would be no progress with Nate. Chuck was right, there were too many loose ends.

"Serena," Chuck said suddenly, interrupting her progress. "When you left the first time, it was desperation. We all understand that. But the second time – you left all of us for no other reason than you couldn't be bothered to explain."

"You're really not in a position to lecture me about that Chuck," Serena said softly. "You've done that over and over again. And I don't remember you explaining why."

Chuck crossed his arms, and Lily was impressed to see that Serena didn't back down or break his gaze. "True. But Blair never has. And she deserves better from the girl purporting to be her best friend. So you should know that if you ever hurt her again, I will make sure that you never have the opportunity to do so again."

"I understand," Serena said, seeming to notice that Chuck was, in his own way, giving her his approval to fix things one last time.

"We don't deserve it, do we?" Chuck said absently, leaning his head against the wall. "Those of us who only feel free when they're walking away."

"What?" Serena asked

"The love of people we know will still be waiting where we left them."

With that, the conversation ended, with Chuck appearing as if he had aged far beyond his years. Lily was strangely proud of him, even though she knew he had gotten it quite wrong. He was becoming someone who waited by the roadside for those cherished people who wander into the undergrowth. He was becoming someone who loved. And it was so alien and threatening to him, that the pain of it would have been too much if he hadn't had the perfectly balanced love of Blair gazing back at him.

He may not be becoming the boy king that his mother had envisaged, nor the ruthless tycoon that Bart had been. He wasn't even some degenerate who insulted both of his parents' memories. Nonetheless, his very bearing told the world that he was someone of note. Anyone could see that he was, almost unwittingly fulfilling his destiny. The question that remained, however, was just what form this destiny would take.

It was on her quest to help him answer that question that Lily found herself in Jack Bass' office, with assistants fussing around her, wanting to give her coffee and gossip about her next to the water cooler.

"Well," Lily said after an unending pause. "It's good to be back."

Jack leant back in his chair, and once more Lily was struck by the startling resemblance between he and Chuck. He had stood for so long at the periphery of Lily's life – of Chuck's life – as a vague threat hiding in the wings, that she had almost forgotten what it was like to see him in person.

Distance and absence had changed him in her mind; she had imagined him younger and more diabolical. But the fact was that he was getting older and had about him a strange calmness.

Here they sat, each a parent to Chuck in their own way. Both total failures at it. Although he no longer sat in the chair of CEO at Bass Industries, he remained an important shareholder, behind only Chuck and Lily in his stake-holding, and so his office was a sumptuous affair. And yet, as he had in Bart's office, Jack refused to change anything about the room: he refrained from any sort of personal touch. It was as if he were merely passing through. Perhaps Jack Bass was another member of that rare class of people who cannot stand to be at home.

Lily found herself staring at the framed picture that sat on the low table in the corner. She had a feeling that it had been here when someone else had occupied the office. That bothered her; the idea that he would view his tenure here as so transient that he would not even take the time to take away a picture that sat framed in the office, belonging to another man.

"I like what you've done with the place," she commented wryly.

"I don't need tokens," he shrugged.

"Maybe you should get a fern."

"Why would I do that?"

Lily almost smiled. "Some of us like to make our workspaces more home-like."

"I have a house for that," Jack said simply, steepling his hands over his chest. "And I don't spend that much time here, really."

There was some pleasure in contradicting him. "You're here day and night."

"Why don't you tell me why you're here," he said softly.

"You know I've never understood it," Lily said, walking over to the picture of someone else's life that decorated Jack's office. "There was no sign that you wanted this – this empire of Bart's – when you were tucked away in Australia. You couldn't have known that he would die young. So obviously it was a decision made after the fact. That I understand. But what eludes me is why you stay here – no family, no friends – just staying here. Like a – I don't know - "

"A snake in the grass," Jack said wearily.

"But see that's what I find so strange. By all accounts, you were a sensible but disinterested investor. You left managers to run Bass in Sydney. Was it just not a big enough prize?"

Jack shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe," Lily repeated. "Or maybe you never wanted any of this. Maybe something else is at work here. Is it…Charles? Did you just wake up one morning and decide to prevent your son from taking over the one thing that mattered to the man who raised him? Is this some misdirected revenge?"

Jack was unmoved, leaning back in his chair. "Do you know where corporations come from, Lily?"

"If you think I came here for a history lesson - "

"That started," Jack interrupted. "With the church. The church needed a legal organisation that was immortal: that would outlast the office-holder. They created a legal arrangement and then gave it life – they made the corporate form into the legal equivalent of a human being. There is nothing that a corporation cannot do that a human being can. They can marry. They can produce children, which are subsidiaries. And they can commit suicide by going insolvent. They can be murdered."

"What's your point?"

"The point is that a corporation is created to be a person. It was never designed to be a throne – especially not when we both know how ridiculous it is to view Chuck as Bart's natural successor. I don't know what Bart was thinking, entrusting this creature to a child. And on my darkest days I think he did it to be cruel: out of revenge."

"I don't think that was it," Lily protested gently. "I think he prized this place above everything else, and that he wanted Chuck to have it because he always cared more for him than he was able to admit."

Jack was lost in thought. "You realize, don't you, that _this_ is Bart's only child? This company of his. Bass Incorporated. He may have _raised_, if that's what you can call it, Constance's only son as his own. But he was only a parent to his corporation. And at law, he created a person. That was his passion."

"Is this company your passion, Jack?"

Jack rubbed his hand over his eyes. Lily realized suddenly that he looked tired, as if he had been spending late nights deep in thought. "I have had only one passion in my life, Lily. I have loved someone only once: for me, passion died on the day that Charles was born. It's unfair really; his parents both died on the day he was born, and now he left with us spectres to raise him. On his eighteenth birthday, I gave an envelope containing every token that I had left of my affair with his mother. That was his inheritance from me. I doubt he even opened it."

Lily bit her lip. "Probably not. But he would have kept it. He's too curious not to want to know what's in it."

Jack nodded without commenting. "So what do you think of it," Jack gestured widely, "this other child you've adopted? This Bass Inc. monster. What do you think about it?"

"I think it doesn't hold a candle to Chuck," she said quietly.

"Neither do I," Jack said, just as quietly. "But it seems to be our fate, Lily, that as parents we will always feel more love than we are capable of showing. And you still haven't told me why you're here."

Lily picked up the frame, looking at the young children running in the autumnal sunlight and the smiling white-haired man that gazed fondly on. "I wanted to talk about Charles' future. He is eighteen now, and our agreement was that I would sign it over to him when he was eighteen and finished school"

"This business with Blair won't distract him for long," Jack commented.

"You heard about that?"

"Of course," Jack shrugged sadly, reminding her that Bass men were united in their need to keep an eye on those closest to them.

"I thought you might have," Lily searched for the words. "You know – come to see him – if you'd known about Blair."

It was impossible for Lily to hide her disappointment in him. But even as her comment clearly chafed him uncomfortably, it was immediately obvious in every inch of this impersonal room that Jack may have cared about Chuck, but he was not the pressing reason for Jack's continued presence in the city. He was not here to be a father, although even now Lily suspected that he would have liked to be that. But both Chuck and Jack would be satisfied with this distance that characterised them. The only thing she could really appeal to was her belief that for the time being, there agendas were crossing paths, and that he would be pleased in some way to know that he was incidentally acting in Chuck's interests. There was some strange quest driving him, and Lily was beginning to suspect what it was.

"So tell me, Lily. Do you want him to have it? Do you think it was right of Bart to give him this burden?"

For a moment, Lily fancied that one day she would be able to see this scene herself: so peaceful and warm in the embrace of family and long summers spent in parks covered in brown leaves. "I want him to have a life, Jack. I want him to have what Bart never did. But I don't want to take this away from him. He needs a parent, more than he knows."

She wondered, briefly whether he would make her say it. It seemed that she would be spared this particular agony, because he was nodding and tapping a letter opener on his desk. "You want me to take it all away, don't you? Because you can't do it yourself."

The nod she offered was barely perceptible. But he saw it, of that she was certain. Although she was almost relieved, she was filled with remorse the very next instant. "He'll hate you for it, you know. He's young and he doesn't know what he wants, but he knows what's his. And he'll hate you for taking it away. But I think you've already decided to, anyway."

"So you're here to tell me that you support my decision but that you want me to give you cover." He paused. "You should know, Lily, that there's no halfway with this. It's already in motion, if that's any consolation. He will never let it go unless I take…drastic steps. And you're right, he won't forgive me."

"What are you planning?" Lily asked, feeling the thrill of foreboding, remembering the heavy texture of the words _murder_ and _suicide_ when he had spoken about the nature of the corporation before.

Jack turned his eyes upon her, as dark as Chuck's in the dim light. Was there no room in this building capable of housing light? For a moment, she hated this place more than was really fair. She hated how it consumed every nutrient from those around it. It was like an infant in that way: or it was a child growing in the womb that leeches calcium from the mother's bones if necessary.

"I'm going to tell the truth," he said simply, and Lily knew she would get no more out of him.

He looked almost dangerous for a moment, and Lily shook her head. "Did you really hate Bart that much?"

"I hate this place," Jack said simply. "Hate what it stands for, hate how much I have depended on it for my entire adult life. And I hate the thought of Chuck becoming a slave to it. So I'll do what you want me to. And at least one of us may remain Chuck's parent when this is all over."

Lily's heart ached for her adopted son, and for this sad man who sat before her, and who might have been happy had fate veered slightly. He would been wonderful at being happy. He would have been beautiful in the picture that Lily now set back down on the low table. But, his fate had been to be dreadfully unhappy without really having reason to be. The same fate befell Lily herself.

There was one difference though. Because while Jack had given up on every truly becoming happy, in this strange kamikaze mission of his, Lily still held a faint hope that one day, in the future, she would finally find peace. And that Chuck would find the happiness that had always eluded every one of his parents.

It had been a year of exceptional birthday parties. For her own fifteenth birthday party, Blair's guests had been entertained by several magicians in a stone room lit by candles and full of dark corners. She had worn a regal dress, just bordering on over-the-top, which she loved with the stubborn passion of someone who knows that their perfect outfit may not be entirely appropriate for the occasion. There was something sumptuous about the evening: something exclusive about those invited into the inner sanctum.

Of course, Serena had um-ed and ah-ed over the guest list to her birthday party for weeks, unable to countenance even a single name being excluded, as always feelings the urge to open her arms as wide as possible and draw the entire world into a warm hug. With every new acquaintance, the same process presented itself. Serena would gush about her party plans, before grabbing hold of the bemused stranger's hand or forearm and exhorting them to come to the party, assuring them that it wouldn't be the same without them – having them promise.

"Who the hell was that?" Chuck asked after one such production, his entire bearing the very picture of disapproval.

"You know, I actually have no idea," Serena admitted, frowning after the latest invitee, before breaking into a sunny grin. "I suppose we'll find out at my party."

"You and your love for the hoi polloi," Chuck murmured, almost fondly.

Rather predictably, the entire event had gotten entirely out of hand, with Serena passed out in the cloakroom and Lily calling from Switzerland, promising the owner of the converted warehouse that she would pay to repair the wooden floorboards that had fallen victim to some rather exuberant break dancing and to have her own tradesmen paint over the graffiti that had been scrawled over the walls.

"That was like, the best party ever," commented one particularly bedraggled teenager. "Although I think I accidentally snorted sherbet."

"How I love spending time with the great unwashed," Chuck drawled. "Blair, from now on, Serena enjoys no rights to organising her own parties."

"Oh don't worry about that," Blair commented, watching two of her classmates throw up into the gutter with distaste. "I'm putting Security Council system in place so that I have the power of veto."

"I don't know what you guys are complaining about," Nate commented. "I had an awesome time."

Nate couldn't help but snort at the twin looks of horror on Chuck and Blair's faces.

Come Monday, Serena was still nursing a hangover and a bone-dry cappuccino, fervently vowing to never again organise a party.

"It's probably time to start lying about my age, anyway," she joked, knocking her hip into Blair's.

Nate's birthday had been a week of festivities; it seemed that everyone wanted a piece of him. Blair found herself standing at his side during evenings of drinks and serious-minded speeches with the family, nursing him in the morning after boozy nights with his lacrosse friends and with their wider circle. On his actual birthday, he insisted that the Non-Judging Breakfast Club accompany him on his uncle's boat.

When she tried to justify it to herself later, Blair would point out that the entire season had passed in one champagne sip. In the blur of festivities, it had been difficult to discern whose party was in whose honour.

That excuse may have been sufficient if the oversight had been for no more than one year. But of course, in all honesty, it had never occurred to any of them that Chuck Bass even _had_ a birthday. Although they all knew it academically, the thought of Chuck taking part in something as inane as a birthday party was all too comical for those who knew him. Besides, at that point in his life, it seemed that Chuck's entire life was passed in a single night's entertainment. The consummate host, it hadn't occurred to anyone that Chuck would not be able to make arrangements for his birthday.

They had been lying around in Chuck's suite, with ties undone and shoes kicked up, trying to gather together the energy to attend the party of a casual friend of theirs from St Tristan's: a brother school to St. Jude's. Serena had been lying on the couch with her legs in the air, performing stationary ballet moves. Chuck had been acting strangely all night, prone already to long silences, he sat mutely in the corner, leaving the rest of them to entertain themselves.

In their discussion about the best birthday celebrations of the year, Serena had suddenly cocked her head to the side and stared at Chuck appraisingly.

"When is your birthday, anyway?"

It was strange to see Chuck look so blindsided, usually so self-possessed. "It's today, actually."

That was the worst part, really. The fact he hadn't even thought to say anything. And despite the flurry of incredulous comments from his friends, he seemed to see nothing strange about his failure to mention the exact date of his birth to his oldest friends. They must have known it at some point; there must have been party dresses and little sailor suits at some point in their early childhoods in Chuck's honour, but obviously the tradition had been done away with at some point.

"Why don't you have a party?" Serena trilled, her own disastrous party obviously forgotten for the moment.

"No," Chuck said quickly. "Birthday parties are just an excuse to solicit gifts from people who 364 days of the year, they can't stand."

"And you don't like gifts?" Serena asked incredulously.

"If you want to give me a gift, Serena," Chuck leered, obviously trying to change the subject, "you should feel free to offer me your services for the night."

"Don't change the subject," Blair objected, suddenly, feeling strangely excluded from the lecherous comments that Chuck used to ward off Serena's questions. She tightened her hold on Nate's hand until it twitched within hers, cramping under the pressure. "We throw the best parties. It's what we do. I'd be happy to organise something for you."

"I don't want a party," he said flatly.

"It's really no problem," Blair breezed, leaning forward. "I'll call my florist and have Dorota plan a guest list. Perhaps some kind of theme? What do you guys think?"

"How about '_I'm Chuck Bass_' as a theme?" Nate suggested, grinning.

"Or '_come as your poison_'," Serena chimed in.

Blair waved her hand dismissively. "Whatever. The important thing is how we decorate the room. Any thoughts about where we should have it, Chuck?"

"Will you guys just _stop_ pressing it?" he snapped. "I don't need you to organise one of your uptight fucking parties for me, Waldorf, so just drop it."

It was only then that she saw his stony face: the words died in her throat when she saw the surprisingly harsh line of his eyebrows and the way he had crossed his arms across his chest. It was her fault, really. She was usually better at reading him. They had been neglectful, really, all taken up in the flurry of social occasions. She had forgotten the singular rule when it came to Chuck Bass: never make him feel trapped.

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence as Blair and Chuck eyed each other. It was rare for him to raise his voice at her, at anyone really. And even though Nate had broken the tension with a well-timed joke, the mood had soured considerably and they had marched to the party in low spirits.

Chuck was in a foul mood for the rest of the night. He barely acknowledged anyone at the party, taking a bottle of the scotch that had been procured for his benefit and setting up camp in a forgotten corner of the rented-out bar. Blair couldn't help but feel her own sense of righteous indignation fading as she watched him drink with a single-minded destructiveness that almost scared her.

"We should throw him a party, anyway," Serena suggested, as she stood in a close huddle with Blair and Nate.

"I think it's a nice idea," Nate said, smiling lightly at Serena.

"No," Blair said sharply. "It's not what he wants."

For some reason, it wasn't the sight of the soft smile that Nate gave Serena that made Blair feel the prickle of irritation that appeared between her shoulders. It was the fact that Nate should have known better than anyone that when Chuck was decided on something, there was no bending his will. It was the first time that Blair had felt that there was something unjust about Chuck's life. Almost in spite of herself, she turned to see him disappearing into a back room of the place.

It was a choice between light and dark, really. She could stay out here in the bright lights with her blonde friends, or she could travel deeper into the building in pursuit of the elusive Chuck Bass: who was something undefined for her, even then. Even then, it was easy to become a Chuck Bass fugitive; she followed after him into those dark spaces of his for no other reason then she loved to feel lost in the dark. When she came back into the light, Nate was more shiny and glorious than ever before. The light only warmed her when she had touched the dark.

Blair left Nate and Serena alone and followed after him, as if some force was guiding her.

She found him far from the noise and crowd of the party, sitting against a wall with his bottle balanced precariously on his knee. It was odd to see him so _drunk. _Chuck was often exuberant, always mildly pickled, but rarely was he drunk to the point of skulking into a back room and slumping on the floor.

"Well this is a sad sight," she said, her hands on her hips.

"Waldorf," he said shortly.

"Why are you hiding out back here?"

"I'm not hiding. I'm merely regrouping."

Blair eyed the dusty floor of this converted warehouse, looking at her own dark blue dress and imagining the sight of lint clinging to the delicate fabric. She would never get it off, so she remained standing.

"You can sit on my lap if you want," he said, with only the merest shadow of his usual suggestiveness.

"So you can fall asleep on me? No thank you."

His eyes were surprisingly sharply focused. "I'd stay awake for that."

It was nothing more than a shudder, and if anyone had asked her to describe it after that day, Blair would scarcely have been able to put it into words. All she knew was that the heat of his gaze made her awkward: it made her want to fill the silence.

"Why don't you celebrate your birthday?"

"I never feel like it," he said simply, still holding her eyes.

"Why don't you ever feel like it?" she asked, knowing that he would tell her to back off, knowing that in this dark back room, she was trying to force her way into that hidden part of his mind.

"Because it seems morbid to me," he replied. "In my beginning is my end."

She cocked her head to the side. "You don't celebrate your birthday because of T.S. Eliot?"

He barked out a harsh laugh. She still didn't understand her own need to touch this darkness of his: how she entered his proximity as a sort of moth, a strange night creature not drawn to light but dark. She needed to understand him.

"I don't celebrate my birthday," he explained, as if she were a small child. "Because it is obscene to me."

"I don't understand," she said, almost stamping her foot.

Another one of those strange looks of his. They were becoming more frequent. There was something hypnotic about those dark eyes. "Why did you follow me back here?"

"Because I wanted to know what was happening in your head," she said honestly.

"In my head?" Chuck said, still tracing those strange shapes and clutching his bottle. "I am at a funeral."

"Yours?"

"My _mother's_."

Even now, years later, Blair could summon the tearful horror that had accompanied those words. The image of Chuck crawling back into the dark recesses of some old building in order to be alone at his mother's funeral. It was immediate, that feeling of tears just behind her eyes: that image of Chuck as an orphan, not quite understanding that he was never being picked up by his parents.

"She died when you were born?"

"Yes."

"You blame yourself?" she asked, with a guilty thrill accompanying the realization that another piece of the Chuck Bass puzzle had fallen into place.

He never answered her, preferring instead to adopt the familiar safety of distance. "You've figured it out," Chuck said bitterly. "You can go back to the party now."

She could have gone back, but for some reason she couldn't leave him back here, like a dog who burrows under the house to die. So, not minding about the dust, she sank down next to him, sitting back on her heels, trying not to cringe when she felt her pointed shoes bending under her weight. They would have a crease, now.

"It's a pretty terrible party," she commented with attempted nonchalance.

"It's not up to your standard," Chuck agreed, still staring at her as she took a sip of his bottle, crinkling her nose as she swallowed.

She didn't try to comfort him, as he stared at her sudden close proximity in surprise. She said nothing at all really; but she waited with him, until he was ready to return to the festivities. It was only after she returned into the too-bright lights that it occurred to her that she should have assured him that it wasn't his fault. It was only after she returned to Nate's side that she realized that she had done nothing to ease his burden. But a part of her knew that he would have hated for her to even try. Perhaps the act of confessing had been enough; the next year he'd had a small gathering in his suite for his birthday. And of course, most recently he had been thrilled by the surprise party Nate had thrown for him.

For some reason, that image of him hanging back in the dark came to her as they lay next to each other on her hospital bed – alone for the time being as her parents rushed home to gather clothes for her or run errands. She still hadn't seen anymore of her friends. But having Chuck pressed close to her, listening to his even breathing was enough, and she found herself lost in the thought of that quiet confession in the back of the party. But it was not the melancholy image that it had been in her mind; it was instead a marker of how far he had come from that self-loathing person who could not stand to be with his friends on his birthday.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked quietly, his eyes luminous in the artificial dark that they had created by drawing the blinds and turning out the fluorescent light.

"I was thinking about you," Blair said softly, trying to angle her broken body around so that she could see more of him. It was impossible in this frozen state, so instead she stared at the room, breathing in his scent. "And how I wish we could have had more time. It seems like we wasted years."

"I spent years wasted," he joked. "That's slightly different."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I was never a good enough friend to you."

"What are you talking about?"

She searched for the words that eluded her. "I'm sorry for all the times that I didn't come to find you. All those times that you were alone when someone should have been there for you."

He couldn't know what she was talking about; she scarcely knew herself. All that she could think of was how his first impulse had been to hide in the shadows on his birthday. And how the years before he would have done so all alone, when she was busy with his best friend. It was strange how fast a person could go from being a casual acquaintance to the most important and pressing issue of a person's life. It was a collision. There was something violent about it.

"I wasn't ready for you to find me yet," he said, finally.

"Do you think that's what it was? We just had to wait until we were ready to find each other?"

"Sort of. Or maybe we weren't ever ready, so we just did it. And then we just sort of taught ourselves how."

"We're good at it, though aren't we?" she smiled.

"Good at what, Blair?" he whispered, tracing small circles on her arm, kissing her shoulder.

"Good at being us," she said, feeling herself doze off in the light of his gentle fingers and the sound of his voice.

"We're the best at that," he laughed

_In my beginning is my end_, he had said, drunk on his birthday. But maybe there was a chance to fight the end that had been determined from the day we were born. That was her last coherent thought before she drifted into a peaceful sleep. She never saw the way Chuck's eyes settled on the blank wall of her hospital room, feeling a thrill of foreboding that no matter what he did, they would always be threatened by things that they couldn't see.

Vanessa and Dan were in the midst of a focused discussion about the musical themes of the mixed tapes they had compiled for Blair's recovery, when Serena found them. They were sitting outside, with Dan's hands clasped around Vanessa's in a way that made Serena's stomach swoop uncomfortably.

"Indie folk rock has proven therapeutic properties," Vanessa grinned.

"But there's a 99% chance that she'll kill herself before she gets through the first thirty seconds of 'Cashmir Pulaski Day'," he protested, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Right," Vanessa said doubtfully. "Because Blair just screams "experimental rock" to me. Your choices are so much more appropriate." She stared at the cover of the CD Dan had burnt that morning. "I mean, Yves Klein Blue, Dan. Really?"

"I think Blair's more of a Lady Gaga fan, to be honest," Serena chimed in.

There was a palpable tension when the couple (another painful swoop) turned to regard her, golden in the sunlight that had somehow peaked through the rather dreary grey that had been upon them for so long during Blair's tenure in hospital.

"Serena," Vanessa said, with a tight nod and an almost unconscious squeeze of Dan's hand, which she felt pull away from her own, as if by reflex.

Dan merely nodded.

"Vanessa," Serena said carefully. "Do you mind if I talk to Dan for a minute? It will only be a minute."

Dan was visibly torn, but as always when Serena stood before him, he felt a dawning incapacity to say no to her. And as always with Vanessa, he expected her to be an inch more understanding than was really necessary.

"Just a minute," Dan mumbled.

"Of course, that's no problem," she breezed falsely.

She let him get away with it; she always let him get away with it. But even as she walked away, assuring herself that it was no big deal, these tiny disloyalties, she glanced back to see Serena standing before Dan as if in penance. Not for the first time, Vanessa would have liked to rewind to the very first moment that Dan expressed those feelings for her that she had run so pointedly away from. She had convinced herself that it would be possible to undo the scorched earth of their former friendship. And when he came to her with his heart in his hands and told her that something had shifted, she had convinced herself that a slight shift was enough.

Perhaps it was her mood that day, or the scenes she had observed between Chuck and Blair the night before, but suddenly it seemed as if her relationship with Dan Humphrey was purely an accident – resembling so many other relationships which masquerade as the decrees of Fate.[1] She had been so flattered by his response to the dress she had borrowed from Blair – it had made her feel so feminine to act as a cure to Serena Van Der Woodsen's absence. She had felt a coquette. And for someone as pragmatic as Vanessa, who was convinced that it was always her fate to be the woman one takes out for beers rather than the woman who is romanced, it was a pleasure to be viewed as a woman. But, she had never paused to wonder what the nature of her attachment to him was.

She didn't love him the way she loved images on a screen: in that way she loved Blair Waldorf even more. Because her love for film was a passion that was uneven and impulsive: passionate in a way that her relationship with Dan had never been. What she had with Dan, was achingly and reassuringly mature. They were partners in the truest sense of the word, but never did his touch verge on violent or his eyes flash with something maddening because of the intense desire he had for her. And perhaps that sort of love was not in her constitution. He was pleasingly earnest when it came to their relationship and the way he sought her counsel and teased her was flattering.

Perhaps this was what love was about: a shared polishing of a routine with a deep affection and a comfortable loyalty. Serena and Dan had been similarly restrained in their love, although Vanessa had the sneaking suspicion that Dan had more romantic, literary yearnings for Serena than he did for her. But, Vanessa was equally confident that he was more himself with her. And still, she had no concept of what it was that she wanted from the entire thing. When Serena and Nate had left, she had been on the verge of leaving it all behind her, and throwing herself to the wind. Where had that feeling gone? Perhaps it had been an immature desire to be light and carried away. Perhaps she had simply grown up.

Although that could be it, she reminded herself, as she strolled down the street to the coffee shop that she and Dan had discovered recently. Because last night, after the tearful reunions between Blair and her friends, with Chuck sitting by her shoulder with his faced more relaxed and happy than ever before. When Vanessa had entered the room, they had been lying on the bed staring at each other, unaware that their friend had intruded on their private sanctuary, lit by the glow of machines monitoring Blair's heart beat.

"I wish you'd stop staring at me," Blair whispered, moving a hand self-consciously to her face.

"I don't understand how it's possible that people don't stare at you all the time," Chuck whispered in a voice that Vanessa had never heard before: stripped bare and rasping, as if the words were precious and the thought of sending them into the world was terrifying. "I've never understood it – how you can just walk around with the rest of us when you're so different from ordinary people."[2]

"I think there was a compliment in there somewhere," Blair teased, lightly, unaware that even her most feather-light tone could have reaped destruction upon him.

"Honestly," he responded seriously. "How is it possible that no one else feels like this when you're in front of them."

"Because you're biased."

"Because they're blind," he retorted kissing her so suddenly that it must have hurt her slightly. Neither of them cast a single thought to her damaged leg or her fresh chest wound. Because their need for each other transcended bodily pain: it was a pain in the soul. But they had become good at hiding it; when Vanessa slipped from the room without drawing attention to herself, before knocking loudly and pointedly to enter again, they seemed more in control, with Chuck sitting next to her bed, holding her hand. For an irrational moment, she was irritated at them pretending to be like other people. It was a mockery, really, when they were the sole proprietors of something so strange and consuming. But soon enough, she was relieved that their social training demanded that they not focus on each other to the exclusion of all others when they had company. She didn't think she could stomach witnessing their intensity. The inevitable comparison to her own relationship would have been too great a torment.

"Oh no, not you as well," Chuck rolled his eyes. "Serena was all about the waterworks as well."

"Really Vanessa," Blair grinned. "We expected more from you."

They had no idea that she was not crying for Blair. Watching them interact, she had no doubt that they could spend an entire night doing no more than stare at each other – and this would be enough to send them mad. Because love like that is a sort of madness, she supposed. And she envied them horribly, while also being terrified for them.

With a final look at Dan and Serena, Vanessa decided to cast out these thoughts of hers. Shaking her head, she wondered by she refused to let herself be happy, and instead let her mind wander into potential world parallel to this one. She would have to learn to be happy with what she had.

During the entire process of thought that had come upon her as she took leave of them, Dan and Serena had merely stared at each other. There was nothing amorous about their gazes, even though the small, ungenerous part of Serena's character would have liked there to have been some shadow of his feelings for her in his eyes. Instead, she was greeted with the strangely upright set of his back that came when he found himself being confronted on another person's terms.

Dan never shied away from honest conversation, but he liked to be the one who initiated these interactions. He liked to be in control.

"Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about?" Dan asked uncomfortably. "Perhaps the state of our health system? Or the impact of the Global Financial Crisis on adult entertainment shares?"

Serena found herself inordinately irritated by his glibness. A part of her was relieved; this would be easier if he were to act callously.

"Yes, Dan," she retorted, crossing her arms across her chest. "Because what else could we possibly have to talk about other than the GFC? It'd be nice to get your take on it. Or maybe we could talk about something that actually matters. Maybe we could spend a few minutes talking about what happened between us."

"And what would that be, Se_re_na?" Dan hissed, unwittingly imitating Blair's intonation with his emphasis on the middle of her name. "How you left without a word to go off with they guy you slept with when he was your best friend's boyfriend? Or how about the fact that you come skipping back here all hair flips and sense of entitlement – and then have the audacity to act like _I'm_ the one who owes _you _an explanation."

Serena blinked at him, her face stony. "Good to get that off your chest?"

"Do not even get me started," Dan spat, building up momentum. "It was a phone call – and you know it. And since when have I been that guy? That guy who stops you from doing whatever you want? When did I become the guy you walk out on?"

"It was too much, Dan," Serena said, trying to control her wavering voice. "With my mother falling apart…"

"No – don't do that. Don't throw your mother out there as an excuse. What was it you said when my mother came back? How you wanted to be the person I told about this sort of thing? You could have told me. I would have listened."

It was strange to have this fight with her standing and his sitting, Serena thought as tears clouded her vision. She felt suddenly very exposed standing before him. It was as if she were appearing in a courtroom, with Dan as her judge and executioner. This had been what she wanted, she reminded herself. The chance to repent, to settle her affairs so that she and Nate would have the opportunity to sort out what they were to each other. And this was what Chuck wanted from her. She owed it to all of them.

"You don't understand," she whispered.

"No," he said, just as quietly, looking less regal in his seated position. He looked small and vulnerable. And in due course, Serena drew herself to her great height, pulling from her sleeve the one justification she had for leaving them all behind. It was a pronouncement that could not fail to shock him.

She felt powerful when she began to speak, even though her voice jumped and wavered tearfully. "I had to leave, Dan. I had to. And if you understood why, then maybe you - "

"What?" he shot back. "Maybe I _what?_"

"Maybe you wouldn't be angry at me anymore," she whispered.

"Well what is it? Tell me," Dan said, spreading his arms wide – imploring her, she supposed. "I don't want to be mad at you Serena. So give me a reason."

For some reason, Serena saw an image of that horrible afternoon she and Nate had spent in the presence of her dead half-brother's parents. She recalled the way his adopted mother's white hand contracted on her own forearm, leaving half-moon red marks where the nails dug into the skin. Looking at her former lover, Serena realized with a sick feeling in her stomach that she couldn't tell him. Because it wasn't her secret, and her motives had been so confused, so coloured by her relationship with her mother, that she couldn't use it as an excuse.

Her poor dead brother. His poor dead brother. How was she to tell him that sometime in the past, before either of them had even existed, their genes had met in a child who, even though he was now dead, had in some way extinguished any chance they – Dan and Serena – had for a relationship? What right did she have to destroy the protective bubble of normality that Rufus had constructed around his family? Didn't she have enough troubles ahead of her mending her own family?

Serena stared at her feet for a moment, before a sudden calm came upon her. She would spare him this knowledge; there was nothing to remedy really. And his refusal to forgive her would be the penance she made for never finding her brother before it was too late to reach him. An accidental death: surely it could have been averted by the arrival of a half-sister to interfere with fate's march. Each minute of ignorance had been complicity. In a way they both had blood on her hands even though neither of them new it.

Let him hate her. Because surely that would be preferable to this sense that their parents had robbed them of a future before they had even met: before the strange combination of genes that made him Dan and her Serena had been united. She settled a blank look upon him. "It was Nate. I left because of Nate."

Dan's shoulders slumped. He had been willing her to give a different answer, she knew it for sure when she saw the blaze in his eyes dim and the last vestiges of hope turn to a grim sort of disappointment. "Bad history repeating itself, again and again," he muttered.

"Dan - "

"Don't. I get it," he said quietly.

"I just thought you should know," she said, biting her lip. "Because it was wrong of me to leave like that. I should have told you I wanted to be with him. And because I hope that in time you'll accept us."

"It was wrong of you to do it, and it's wrong of you to ask for my blessing," Dan said flatly, squaring his shoulders in a sudden wave of righteousness.

"I know."

"But you're doing it anyway. Because you're Serena Van Der Woodsen."

"That's right."

"Well," he said, avoiding her eyes. "Then I guess there's nothing left to say. Congratulations, Serena. Looks like you finally found someone on your own level."

"Looks like," she responded, staring passed his shoulder where Vanessa was hovering with coffees in hand. "I'll leave you alone."

"Do that," he snapped.

She left him to his coffee and his new life, glad that she had spared him the heavy knowledge of a life lost. It was a strange feeling, carrying a heavy burden. But a part of her enjoyed the added weight.

Time passed. But it had a strange quality about it; it was really a short space, compressed and made alien in the sterile grounds of the hospital. Blair felt as if she were suspended in a single moment, but each day there was another sign that her friends and family were walking at a different speed. It was the new brooch in amber that her mother wore on her lapel while helping her bathe (both red-faced but glad to share such an alien and long-passed intimacy). It was the springtime flowers that Roman and Harold brought her (they spent a pleasant afternoon watching the way the shadow of the bouquet looked reflected against the wall, before Harold announced that soon they would return to Paris. Blair smiled at him and gave her blessing. But when the door closed and she was alone with Chuck, she allowed bitter tears to overcome her.). It was even in Nate's new haircut ("I needed a change," he said, running a self-conscious hand over his now exposed forehead. "You still look like Zac Efron," Blair teased, squeezing his hand with the relaxed affection of people who have moved on.).

Only one person waited with her in this strange stasis. When she was still, Chuck was still. When she raged, Chuck withstood. When she hungered for his mouth, his touch, he kissed and touched her. For the moment, that would have to be enough.

Blair threw herself into her rehabilitation with the sort of energy that she usually reserved for schoolwork and her soirees. She pushed herself at night, when she could tell from Chuck's soft breathing ("The nurses and I have an understanding that visiting hours don't apply to me," he'd said, smugly. "As in you bribed them," she retorted, secretly thrilled.). By day, she devoured the schoolwork that was largely superfluous in light of her college admission.

But, there was an inevitable price to pay, stepping out of the world and causing barely a ripple; it was with the cruelty of a bureaucracy that Constance informed her that the hard-won honour of her valedictorian spot would now be split with Nelly Yuki, in light of the other girl's spate of extra-credit involvement.

"So what's our plan?" Chuck asked, his eyes flashing and his fingers twitching with a hunger for vengeance.

Blair had stared glumly at the shadows that danced on the wall. "There's no plan."

"It isn't right," he spat. "You earned it. And the idea of _Nelly Yuki_ sharing the podium with you is obscene."

"Well that's how it's going to be," she frowned. "Because there's nothing I can do about it from here."

There was a hint of that familiar devilish smirk on Chuck's face. "_I _could do something - "

"No Chuck," she snapped. "It wasn't like that with valedictorian. That was one thing that…you know…It felt good to win that. And do go black ops on her now…well that would cheapen it."

He leant back in his chair, regarding the strange purity of her belief system with the dawning wonder of a scientist who has classified a new creature. "So you share the podium."

"I guess so," she said, glaring at her broken leg.

She didn't even notice him approach her, but she felt his finger under her chin, drawing her eyes from her leg to his face – silently chastising her for her self-recriminations. "I feel sorry for Nelly. Sharing a podium with you. That will be a humbling experience."

No matter how much she tried to send him back to his life outside, he would come back as soon as he could. She sent him to school, because she felt he needed to remember those things that defined him outside of her. And there was an oddly pleasant quality to the solitude she enjoyed while he was in classes. Of course, by the end of the day she was edgy and desperate to see him again. He would bring gifts each day and spend the night sleeping upright. Serena reported that he was miserable at school and that Nelly Yuki verged on mental collapse under the force of his death stares.

"He spends most of his time with Dan," Serena said with a false brightness that Blair saw through. "They're attached at the hip."

"In some cultures they'd be married," Blair quipped.[3]

She was only happy, really, when he was there to help her with her mind-numbing rehab exercises. But even so, she was horribly frustrated by the process, determined to push herself beyond the recommended level. Pushing herself to the point of exhaustion. Chuck would arrive during her physiotherapist meetings in a wide room with mirrors and a wooden bar. Her wheelchair would be pushed to the side, and her entire leg immobile in a strange sort of boot (Nate called it her "moon boot"), which allowed her to simulate walking. Blair would always insist on staying after the end of her appointment, urging Chuck to help her push herself harder.

"What's the hurry, Blair?" Chuck asked, holding her forearms as she performed strange acrobatics on the wooden bars.

"I'm sick of it," she spat, exhaling through her teeth. "I'm sick of being here and disrupting everyone's lives. I just want things to go back to normal. I want to get on with our lives."

"And they will – we will. But not if you break your neck trying to re-enact Cirque du Soleil," he commented wryly, breathing heavily as he tried to match her focus.

"Let go of me," she panted.

"Blair - " he started.

"Do it," she snapped, feeling a thrill of victory when he retreated a few steps. With legs shaking like a fawn, Blair took a tentative step before sprawling to the ground before Chuck could catch her.

"Dammit," she spat, feeling tears of frustration forming in her eyes. "Just _don't_ touch me for a moment. For God's sake Chuck – just give me a minute."

She wasn't sure whether it was the stress of watching her fall to the ground yet again, or the frustration of knowing that there was nothing he could do to help her, but for some reason it seemed too much for the usually even-tempered Chuck. His chest heaved with emotion as she struggled to pull herself up. With a groan of frustration he turned around and struck the wooden bar, making it vibrate above her head. "What is _wrong _with you? Are you determined to kill yourself?"

"I'm _fine_. Why do you insist on treating me like an invalid?"

Chuck slid down the mirrored wall opposite to her, looking beyond exhausted. "Why do you insist on making this so hard for me to help you?"

"Hard for _you?_ This is happening to me, Chuck. Look at me! _Look_ at me," Blair shouted, gesturing at her shattered leg, gesturing at her chest, with tears rolling down her face. Finally, the stress of it all was too much and she cried over the injustice of it.

With a jerk, Blair realized that Chuck was indeed looking at her. Exhausted from her own tears and her tentative steps, Blair let her head fall against the mirror as she stared back at him. They had not touched, not really, since the accident. They were almost shy with each other, with Blair achingly self-conscious about her appearance, surrounded by mirrors and regarding each other from a distance. It had never been this way: the heat of their bodies together had always drowned out her doubts. With physical closeness suddenly so out of reach, Chuck took a moment to really look at her.

"I see you, Blair," he said quietly.

They sat at opposing ends of the rehabilitation room, regarding each other, eyeing their own reflections in the mirrors at their respective backs. Despite the space between them, and the way they were unceremoniously sprawled on the floor, with their legs straight out and pointing at each other, a wave of heat passed between them.

"What do you see when you look at me?"

"The most terrifying person I have ever met," he said with a small grin.

"Thanks a lot," she huffed.

"It's true," he shrugged. "You terrify me."

There was a pause. There was a time when Chuck would have been frustrated with himself about giving such an inconsequential answer to her question. But in the quietness that had fallen over them in this forgotten corner of a sterile hospital, Chuck mused that it was the most honest answer he could have given her. She had brought terror to his life; surely there was nothing more powerful than the crushing fear of losing her. He settled his eyes at her, and she stared right back in a way that no one else ever had. Most people avoided looking into his eyes. Perhaps they were intimidated by the dark brown – almost black – of them, or they had simply not bothered to look beyond the smirk.

"How do I terrify you?"

It was somehow fitting not to have this conversation while curled up in bed together. The promise of play and sensual delight was so far from them; this room was a sort of confessional. Chuck had never had a sense of an exultant higher power until she had crashed into his life. He felt he should have been on his knees before her, despising her and worshipping her – but that was it, wasn't it? She didn't force him to get to his knees. He chose to.

"It just terrifies me how far I would go to…keep you. I have been trying to draw a line in the sand, you know? To say 'here is my limit.' But it seems there's no act of abasement I would not perform just to…"

"To what?"

"To be loved by you," he whispered.

It was strange that his dark words and his glittering dark eyes should appear erotic to her, but they did. Here was the proudest man she had ever known telling her that he would perform any act for her. To someone less willing to gaze into the abyss, the promise may have meant less. But this was Chuck Bass. Who even knew what he was capable of? He didn't know himself.

She had made a promise, so long ago. The darkest thought he had – she would stand by him through anything. If he were to tumble down into a black depth, she would catapult herself after him. Somersaulting into darkness, with her only concern being whether she could grasp his hand.

When had this happened? When in the history of the Non-Judging Breakfast Club had two members become so intrinsically bound? Was there a hint in the way they had been? There had been an underlying attraction, of course, but when had it become such a force? When had it laid waste to everything in its path?

They had created it, she realized. It was amazing that something so substantial had been created by two such insubstantial people.

Chuck sighed, before pulling himself to his feet before strolling over to her. Their serious discussion seemed to have been pushed to the side. It had been smoothed over by his mask. She was in awe of his capacity to simply bury things. For her part, Blair felt as if she had been hit by a freight train.

"Come on," he said wearily, lifting her to her feet. "Let's teach you how to walk again."

He all but carried her to the wooden bars. When he tried to slip her arms from around his neck to place them on the smooth wood, she clung to him. Searching his face, looking into his eyes, running her hands over his stubble, she seemed to be seeking something from his features. He had been amazing, really. And for the life of her, she couldn't understand this perfection in him.

"Why?" she asked finally. "Why are you doing this?"

He cut his eyes away from her. He had already exposed too much of himself. Focusing his eyes on their strange reflection: Blair's leg encased in alien materials, and he looking pale and wrung out, with hands probing his face. Closing his eyes, he took one of her hands off, kissing her palm.

"Because you did it for me."

"Okay," she said quietly, before forcing her unwilling body to cooperate with the wooden bars and Chuck's gentle hands.

[1] Adapted from Kate Chopin's _The Awakening_.

[2] Gabriel Garcia Marquez, _Love in the Time of Cholera _

[3] A classic _West Wing _reference.


	20. Chapter 20: Innisfree

A/N: Another long chapter! Sorry to those of you who don't like the long ones. It was originally going to be any longer, but I have pushed parts of it into the next chapter. I tried to balance the sadder moments with some moments of levity. Unfortunately, the next chapter will have some pretty sad moments for Chuck. I'm pretty sure the next chapter will be the last (or possibly second last) of this story. Thank you so much for your continued reading and reviewing of the re-upload.

**Chapter Twenty:**** Innisfree**

_I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,_

_And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:_

_Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,_

_And live alone in the bee-loud glade._

_And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,_

_Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;_

_There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purpose glow,_

_And evening full of the linnet's wings._

_I will arise and go now, for always night and day_

_I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;_

_While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,_

_I hear it in the deep heart's core._

- William Butler Yeats "The Lake Isle of Innisfree"

**Five Days Later: **

Although it took only a working week for the entire unpleasant business to come crashing down around them, it was impossible, really, to tell where it all began.

Perhaps the origins of this entire mess lay in that grey, impenetrable time before Constance and Jack Bass had even thought to look at each other as lovers do; perhaps the events of the last week had been prophesised long before Harold and Eleanor Waldorf had sat at their kitchen table with their leather-bound day-planners open, discussing the design of their own daughter, down to the star sign.

Perhaps it all came back to the young up-start, Bartholomew Bass, who lived near the docks and woke up to the smell of fish in his tiny shoe-box of a house. Bartholomew Bass, whose delivery job took carried him passed those glittering high-rise monoliths that lined the streets in the nicer parts of New York City – surely the events that had coloured the last five days must have been laid down when the young boy felt the first coils of ambition in his stomach.

Everyone knew the story. It was a well-established part of the Bart Bass mythology.

It had been a ferociously cold day, when Bart had been hurrying home to get changed out his embarrassingly menial uniform – and into his even more embarrassingly menial school uniform. His little bicycle (an indulgence his father allowed merely because it made possible the meagre salary that Bart's before- and after- school job contributed to the family) had failed him, and he was kneeling in the gutter, trying to mend the blown tire with nothing more than a piece of chewing gum and a sense of dread.

His schoolboy head was filled with disastrous images of being late for school, and the flaying his father would give him when he arrived home, when suddenly a pinging noise shook him from his reverie. It took a moment for Bart to recognise that one of the splendid businessmen who shuffled towards a Wall Street that was full of promise had thrown him a nickel.

"Catch a bus, kid," the man grinned patronisingly before hurrying through the doors of one of the buildings that Bart had admired each day, not waiting for a response.

The boy found himself suddenly unable to locate his tongue. Staring at the nickel next to his left knee, Bart found himself suddenly, inexplicable humiliated. It was a moment of unusual critical distance; for a moment, he saw himself as others must see him, on his knees in the street in a too-shabby coat next to a hopelessly unreliable bicycle. And in this moment of unbearable shame, Bart felt for the first time a pit of anger at the base of his stomach.

And while at that point, most people would have calmed their nerves and achieved equilibrium, Bart found himself growing furious at the man's audacity. If only he hadn't hurried off into that impenetrable building, Bart would have spat in his eye, kicked him in the shin, thrown a rock at his head. There was no punishment too extreme for the man who had made him feel like a beggar. There was no punishment he would not extract to force that smug, well-dressed man to feel the shame that had gripped Bart Bass on that street corner.

Still shaking with fury, his little bike wobbling underneath him, Bart found himself muttering under his breath, "just wait, just wait."

Even then, Bart knew that there was something extraordinary about that day, although many years would elapse before he truly knew what the meaning of that inconsequential phrase had been. All he knew, on that biting winter's day was that he could never abide the thought of himself as "less-than", and that those tall buildings were a sort of armour: that entry into the towering metal structures was a mark of being "better-than".

Even after his father took his belt to the back of Bart's legs – punishment for a punctured wheel and his tardiness – he found himself changed in some vital way. It was as if he had finally developed a sense of the horizon; it would be his destiny to redefine the Bass name in this city until people like that man – whose nickel Bart had left where it fell – quivered in his presence.

It was a genesis. That day in the city he loved, Bart Bass' eyes were opened. From that day, it was impossible to close his eyes to his own sense of distaste at his life, his family, his shabby house and even shabbier clothes. And although he brought his poor, drunk father and quiet, wraith-like mother (and their newborn son, so much younger than Bart himself) a much nicer house in Brooklyn, he would never be able to silence the young boy's voice inside of him who deplored their weakness of character, who attributed his success to his own strength of character.

Nonetheless, he couldn't help but be repulsed by those eager young pups who walked straight out of those prep schools across the country, who assumed that the world owed them a living – who would not deign to work their way through college. They would enter the halls of Bass Industries with a sense of entitlement that Bart relished quashing.

Although he silently condescended to those poor folk who had never managed to better their own lot, it was the idle rich who he detested the most. Those sons of wealth and privilege who were weak and effeminate, and who disdained every privilege they were given. What excuse for these children?

At Princeton, Bart had become fascinated with genetics; struck by the importance of timing in the creation of a human being. Delay the act by an hour and you change the gene selection. His own mother and father might have delayed their rare sexual encounters by a day or an hour, and someone different to Bart Bass would have been created. An infinite number of possible selves crowd the threshold.[1] And yet, of all those infinite possibilities, Bart Bass had been conceived from the queer collision of genes between a man destined to be in the twilight of his life for decades, and a woman who could barely inhabit her own house. Somehow, these two, wilting people had created a man destined to build half of the Manhattan skyline.

He would be indebted forever to those people who had given him life and encoded the ambition to better it into his genome. And so, out of deference to the father who had died young but looked much older, and the silent mother who had died without causing a ripple, he had set himself the task of looking after his young brother. Because even though Bart detested the way that inherited wealth could propel the less deserving into a position of power, there was no way he could deny the extraordinary alchemy of genetics. Family was something mystical; family was under Bart's protection.

The day he incorporated the company that still stood as ruler over New York, a kind woman accepted his forms and asked him what he was going to call this fledgling corporation of his.

"Bass," he replied in a voice like a cool blast of air in winter.

"A namesake," she smiled, faltering slightly at his icy tone.

It was a christening. And long after his own brother had shown him the way family could betray, Bass Industries stood as immovable and threatening as Bart Bass himself had become.

There was a famous picture of Bart Bass standing with typical dignity underneath the BASS INDUSTRIES sign on the first floor of the building. Anyone looking at it would have been in no doubt that the entrepreneur had known – had just _known_ – that soon enough his business would fill every level of this building, spreading like an organism. Growing up.

Inside the Headquarters that now presided over twenty Bass Inc. buildings worldwide, the organism lived on in a sort of perpetuity that defied any who stood at its helm to overestimate their own importance in the grand scheme of things.

Standing on the glass balcony that overlooked the marble entry-hall of the building, Jack Bass and his assistant, Raoul, stood surveying the crowd who waited for elevators.

"He's definitely coming?" Raoul asked nervously, his arms crossed and foot tapping on the floor as his boss stood stock-still, with arms crossed.

"Oh, he's coming," Jack replied nonchalantly with a wan smile.

At that moment, another figure joined them in their glass observatory. Dave Perkins fixed Jack with a thinly veiled scowl before searching the crowd below.

Despite their long midnight scotches in the early days, when work had been a twenty-four hour addiction, Perkins had never expressed the distrust he felt towards Jack to Bart. They had all known how Bart felt about family, and it had seemed an impossible battle. In a competition between Perkins, who had been at Bass since the beginning, and Bart's own showy and arrogant brother, Bart would never hesitate in showing his old friend the door. And so, Perkins found quiet ways to exclude Jack from the decision-making process – something Jack hadn't cared about in the least. Jack was always more comfortable hanging out in his brother's office, drinking scotch and performing the one impressive task that he was capable of: making Bart Bass laugh.

Perkins had to admit that there scarcely a trace of the roguish young man who he had once discovered having a wheely-chair race in the employee's lounge. Jack was aging much too fast, as if the vitality was seeping from his very bones.

"You don't have to search the crowd," Jack contributed quietly. "You'll know when he arrives."

Perkins turned his head sharply. "You could look a little less smug about this entire thing, you know."

In reality, there was no smugness on Jack's face. Merely an unusually calm aspect for someone who was laying waste to everything around him. Perkins still didn't trust Jack Bass.

"I'm not smug, David," Jack replied serenely. "But you really don't have to search."

Perkins opened his mouth to respond when a flurry below captured his attention.

The first sign was the shouting outside: the catcalls and questions from the press pool that had gathered outside the building.

"Showtime," Raoul muttered.

The doors flew open, as if the force of the personality now entering the marble entry-hall was enough to cause it to spring from it's hinges. There was a sudden stillness that overcame all the figures that waited for the elevator to propel them to their workspaces. They moved to the side, clearing a thoroughfare for the triumvirate who now entered.

There was something remarkable about Chuck's bearing as he entered the building, casting a lazy and detached eye over the magnificent entrance. He scarcely seemed to notice that he was being scrutinised, but walked with a purposeful stride, his gleaming shoes tap-tap-tapping his arrogant path to the elevators. His head, Jack noted, was high, but to someone with a discerning eye, there was something false about the gesture. His chin was just a fraction too defiant to be genuine and his red tie was too ostentatious for the sombre surroundings. .

To his left, stood Harold Waldorf, a formidable corporate lawyer in his time. But in Harold, too, there was something not-quite-right in his bearing. Perhaps it was the fact that it had been years since he donned a suit and marched into battle. He was rusty, Jack mused, and at best he was here under protest.

To Chuck's right, lagging behind slightly was Lily Van Der Woodsen. Although it might have been Jack's imagination, he fancied that he could see her look up to the mostly obscured viewing balcony and give him a meaningful look: a surreptitious reminder that they had an agreement. That she wouldn't stand in his way, and in exchange, he would not rat her out.

As the elevator doors closed and Chuck stood, flanked on either side by adults with motives he couldn't hope to discern, he looked for all the world like a king headed towards execution.

Jack turned around to the other two men who stood with him, a feeling not unlike pride filling him.

"Say what you will about Chuck," Jack commented. "But he makes quite an entrance."

**Five Days Earlier**

In the hazy days of summer, the day could be measured in drinks.

After sleeping off the muscle aches of the previous night's dancing, the visitors who would stay here only for a season would shake off their tiredness to recline next to a pool or on the beach, counting the hours before champagne would become an acceptable accompaniment for food and a party dress could be pulled over tan skin. While summer might take each of them to the farthest reaches of the earth, a certain cross-section of New York society would always find time to relocate to summer houses, to enjoy an vision of idleness and lazy decadence that might have seemed more appropriate in a bygone era.

It sometimes seemed as if these summers passed in one ringing and exuberant song.

Blair had always found that these last idling weeks of summer were her favourite. And this particular visit to the Hamptons – although she hadn't known it at the time – would be the last that the Non-Judging Breakfast Club would spend in each other's company before their friendship changed forever.

Over the past however-many-summers, Blair had often had the chance to spend time in the most stunning houses that the place had to offer. But her favourite had to be Barbiston.

It was the sort of house Blair would have liked to live in, if such a property could somehow be transported to the Upper East Side. And as the low light of the afternoon gave way to balmy night, when whimsical lights were switched on around the pool and the smell of jasmine became more pronounced, Blair's eyes travelled to Nate's face and she saw the promise of a future with startling clarity.

"It's a beautiful house," she said dreamily, imagining the two children for whom Nate would build a tree-house.

Nate cast a critical eye over the enormous willow that grew in the front yard, and the black shutters on the monumental white house, with its juliette balconies and luscious garden. "I dunno," he said hesitantly. "Doesn't it feel a bit stuffy?"

"It's perfect," she retorted.

"Whatever you say," he shrugged, putting him arm around her before grinning at his lacrosse buddies who hollered at him from across the front garden. With a kiss on Blair's cheek, he galloped over to the crowd that had grown to talk to a retired football player. That he didn't have enough of an opinion to argue with her annoyed her the most, and Blair found that her mood was spoilt.

"Blair," Serena called from a distance. "Come dance with me."

Blair just waved at her, gesturing helplessly, as if she had been given some vital task that she had to attend to immediately. Serena was more than a little tipsy, and for a few moments, Blair just wanted to be alone with the house that no one else seemed to really understand. She found herself drifting away from the party, irritated in a way she could barely articulate, and wanting to hold onto the vision of the future that had struck her so clearly, but disappeared so easily with Nate's lack of enthusiasm.

It really was a glorious house, Blair thought.

For generations, the Wincester family had held onto the grounds, accepting none of the ludicrously generous offers to purchase that had arisen over the years. It was probably the best lot of real estate in the area, but as Nate had pointed out, it did not appeal to the more modern aesthetic. Blair had been relieved at the family's refusal to sell when she heard one overweight property developer mention something about knocking it down and building condominiums. It was inevitable, though. The Wincester family would die out this generation, and with the final breath of surprisingly sprightly Sybille Wincester. When she died, the house would undoubtedly find itself on the market.

It was a crying shame, Blair mused, moving around the side of the house, away form the space allocated for guests. Perhaps Harold and Eleanor could be compelled to put an offer in, although in reality the amount that the place would go for would be obscenely high, and Eleanor would undoubtedly baulk at the notion of expending such a sum for a house to be used only two months per year.

She knew that Eleanor would be annoyed at her snooping as she slipped around the back to find a large swimming pool lit by low lanterns and presided over by a whimsical pool-house. Although she could hear the low hum of music and the occasional titter of laughter, she knew that for the moment she was alone.

Until her eyes fell on Chuck Bass.

It was not unusual to find him alone at a party, with a scotch pilfered from the bar. But for some reason, Blair took pause at the sight of him, trying to figure out what about the scene was so striking.

He had rolled up his trousers, his shoes and socks were discarded as his legs dangled in the pool. There was a strange innocence about him as he stared contemplatively at his own feet as they made currents under the surface of the water. It seemed out of place on the boy who revelled in his own filthy mouth and tails of his conquests.

There was something poignant about the careful way he had lined up his shoes and socks. Blair wondered, for a moment, whether when he had been a little boy, his nannies had told him to put his shoes just so before he rushed off to play on the beach. It was surely a detail that Bart Bass never would have thought to take care of.

It must be strange for Chuck, Blair realized, as she watched the low light soften his features, even as it cast shadows on his face. No one could say he didn't belong here; his father was the richest of any guest at the party. But there was an inherent snobbery in the community that always acknowledged that the Bass's were nouvo riche – an opinion, Blair noted, that never stopped them from enjoying Bart's hospitality.

When Bart was present, everyone kowtowed to him as if he were a king among them, but Bart's sole focus was his empire. He didn't accompany his son to the Hamptons and would under no circumstances consider buying a property in the area. It was a black hole investment, really. The Hamptons had ossified. Besides, Bart disapproved of holidays.

Blair knew that Chuck loved being here; that the idle life of the rich suited him to a tee. But, whenever he came here, he was in the humiliating position of being the Archibald's guest. Without Bart around, he was no more than the eccentric son of totalitarian Bart Bass, who had lost any social grace he had possessed when his beautiful young wife died.

Besides, all the families here had heard about "that Bass boy".

And so, Blair felt her heart contract painfully when she saw him alone in a forgotten corner of the house she loved. Chuck hated to be thought of as less-than, and with his keen understanding of social dynamics, he must have sensed that in this context, with people who had known each other for decades, he was a second class citizen.

"What are you doing here all alone?" she asked in a forced cheery voice.

Chuck looked up in surprise; he had been lost in his thoughts. He smiled at her – _smiled_, she noted – with a rather bashful expression on his face. "I am forming a sub-party."

"By yourself?" she asked incredulously, noting with a strange thrill that his eyes had travelled up her bare legs.

"It's very exclusive," he shrugged.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

He raised an eyebrow, staring pointedly at her beautiful purple dress and her heels, a hint of challenge in his eyes. He refused to look away as she negotiated the side of the pool and hiked up her skirt slightly. The water was surprisingly cool and refreshing and for a moment Blair stared at her feet and his feet, distorted by the ripples in the water. She noticed that Chuck was doing the same thing, and that their hands were almost touching.

"It seems unfair doesn't it?" Blair said suddenly, startling him. "That Mrs. Wincester gets to live in this house all by herself."

"It's the best house in the Hamptons," Chuck shrugged. "That dried up old bitch isn't going to let it out her clutches until she dies."

Blair studied his profile. "You like the house?"

He turned his eyes to hers. For an insane moment, Blair felt the same sensation she'd had on that Ferris wheel in Central Park: convinced that he was going to kiss her. And for once, united by their obvious affection for the house, she wasn't sure that she would stop him.

"Of course I like the house," he said softly.

Blair let out the breath she had been holding, feeling foolish and desperate to move passed the tacit moment that must have been entirely in her head. "It reminds me of an Evelyn Waugh novel. I hate the thought that some property developer is going to knock it down and turn it into townhouses."

"Sounds like a job for Bass Industries," he said sarcastically, taking a sip of his drink and shifting slightly. Blair told herself that it was unconscious, the way his smallest finger brushed hers, but knowing Chuck he was doing it to test her. If she pulled her hand away he would raise one of his smug eyebrows at her and say something disgusting. It seemed as if every nerve in her body was focused on the tiny point of contact of their pinkies. How ridiculous to be this stirred by the touch of a hand.

"Well maybe you can convince Bart to buy it and leave it how it is," she said, clearing her throat and stubbornly refusing to remove her hand so that it ceased touching his.

"Maybe _I'll_ buy it as an engagement present for you and Nate," Chuck said with a hint of sarcasm, pulling his hand away to pick up a drink. "I mean, that's your plan, right Waldorf?"

Their conversations always went this way. An imperceptible struggle of power that played out in every physical gesture and spoken word. Blair ignored the slight jab; she was getting used to Chuck's insinuations that she was living in a waking dream. He was so sure of himself, so quick to judge other people, when anyone could see that he dreamt in exactly the same way as she did. He had a dream to be like his father, for some bizarre reason. When anyone could see that he was so uniquely Chuck, so different from other people, that sitting at a desk every day would suffocate him. But, she never said it to him aloud, never wanted to shatter his illusion that Bart would one day respect him. Because she was fearful that he would say something that would take her own dreams away from her forever. And then she would be lost.

"Nate doesn't like the house," Blair said flatly.

Chuck shot her an unsurprised look; it was as if he had suspected that Nate lacked the ability to appreciate something beautiful and old fashioned. "Put in a foosball table. He'll come around. He'd be insane not to."

Blair swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. It must have been the summer air, because for a moment she had an image of such clarity that it stole her breath. She seemed to have forgotten what the scene was supposed to look like; Nate and their light-eyed, dark-haired children were gone. Since the day she had imagined Chuck having sex with her, she seemed to find these images cropping up in her mind more and more, easily explained when she thought about how often she had seen Chuck in a state of dishabille with some nameless slut or other. It was her minds way of making sense of the mysterious topic of sex, she knew. But no matter how easy it was to rationalise the scenes, they never ceased to leave her hot and bothered.

For a moment, Blair imagined that the house belonged to her and Chuck, and that under a summer night's sky just like this one, they were making love on the floor of the pool-house with the doors open to the smell of jasmine and lit by the same low lights that now cast shadows over their faces. It was a moment of insanity, Blair thought, struggling to rid herself of the image. The champagne and the warm sun must have had more impact on her than expected. And not for the first time, Blair was certain that Chuck knew what she was thinking, because he refused to break eye contact with her.

"Maybe you should buy it for yourself," Blair said, clearing her throat, after their shared look became uncomfortable.

Chuck was silent for a long time. "It belongs with a family," he said finally. "Just give me the guest room with the best view of the pool. And make sure to swim your morning laps naked, and I'll be fine…"

"You really are repellent sometimes," Blair rolled her eyes, punching him lightly on the shoulder, trying to clear her head of any lingering thought of his dark eyes staring into hers as his body weighed down her hips. His joke had restored the equilibrium of their time together and for a while they sat in companionable silence. But soon enough, Chuck seemed to become lost in the melancholy that had been palpable when she'd come upon him with his legs in the pool.

"You should go back to the party," he said, avoiding her eyes.

"Are you coming?" she asked, not wanting to leave him alone.

His eyes closed slightly, moodily. He was impossible when he was in one of these moods. He couldn't be moved. "In a minute," he said flatly.

"Okay."

It was to this house that Blair always returned when the constant light of the hospital made sleep impossible. It was always at night that Blair would return to the moment she had shared with Chuck in her favourite house in the world, when all she could hear was his breath – long after her family and friends had made their excuses and left for their houses and lives.

She had tried to convince Chuck to leave with them, but he gave her one of his hooded looks that never failed to make her heart ache.

"Where on earth else would I go?" he'd say.

"Home," she said. "To bed."

"Bed is boring without you in it," he said simply, leaving unspoken the saccharine sentiment that they both knew he meant, but would be embarrassed to say aloud: he was only home when he was with her. But, to say such a thing would have been too mortifying for Chuck, so Blair read it in his eyes and face, and fell a little bit more in love with him.

"Bed is pretty boring with me in it as well, at the moment," Blair said, pouting and gesturing at her cast. In her typically perfectionist way, she was advancing rapidly in her physiotherapy, and soon enough she would be cut out of the cast and put in a hideous orthopaedic boot, which would allow her to move around (albeit rather awkwardly). Her doctors were pleased with her progress, and it seemed that by week's end she would be allowed to return to her life.

But, that didn't change the fact that she and Chuck had never gone so long without sex, and dusting off that old fantasy of them in the pool-house, she found herself feeling particularly frisky. Lying next to him on the hospital bed as they pointlessly negotiated about his sleeping arrangements: both completely aware that he would once again bribe the head nurse to let him sleep over, Blair felt a wave of desire pass over her.

It must have showed in her face; Chuck's voice took on that husky quality that it had in moments when he wanted her. "See something you like?"

Blair licked her lips, smirking slightly. "No I was just thinking about that dreamy new doctor that took my vitals today."

Chuck glared at her, before kissing her with a scorching intensity that they had been avoiding under the watchful gaze of her parents and the hospital staff. "Perhaps I'm going to have to drive all thoughts of Dr. Dreamy from your mind.

Blair noticed that even as passion took hold of him and he kissed the breath from her, he was carefully trying to keep his weight off her injured leg. Not for the first time, Blair cursed the weakened state of her body, wishing that they could be as unrestrained as ever in their passion for each other. And so, she focused on trying to make Chuck forget all about hurting her, pressing her hands to his lower back, pulling him closer-closer-closer, but certain that they would never be close enough.

Taken up in the moment, Chuck's hands roamed over her body in the silky nightdress she had insisted Serena pick up for her – and which Chuck insisted she keep covered with a robe when the "cute new doctor" entered the room. Blair could scarcely articulate how wonderful it felt to have his weight on her, but when he inadvertently bumped her leg, she let out a stifled help in spite of herself.

He pulled back - removing that precious weight from her and leaving herself feel too light in the sterile hospital bed. He looked so distressed that he had hurt her, that Blair knew there would be no chance that he would give into another passionate make out session until he could guarantee that he didn't hurt her.

"I am _so_ sorry," he said guiltily, stroked her hair and peppering kisses on her cheeks and mouth.

Blair laughed hollowly. "And I am _so_ sexually frustrated."

Chuck planted a protective kiss on her forehead. "I'd rather wait," he said contemplatively. "And then, when I don't have to worry about hurting you, imagine how good it's going to be."

"Oh you don't have to tell me. I've only been thinking about nothing else for weeks," Blair dead-panned.

"Yeah," he said serenely, settling next to her so she could sleep in the crook of his arm on the cramped bed. "She wants me."

"Shut up Bass."

For a few moments, she listened to his breath and stared at the beige ceiling of her hospital room. In her mind, she was once more walking by the pool in Barbiston. Turning herself slightly so she could breathe in his scene and look at his face, she reached out to trace the line of his lips.

"Do you remember that house – in the Hamptons? Barbiston?"

"That house is fucking amazing," he whispered, his eyes closed and a half-smile on his face.

"And do you remember that time we sat by the pool?"

"Blair," he said quietly, not opening his eyes. "I remember everything."

"Oh," she said, lost for words at the crackling intensity of his voice. "So do I."

With that, Blair fell asleep, remembering champagne, the smell of jasmine and the bashful looks that passed between two friends who didn't want to acknowledge that their pinkies were touching.

"There is no chance in hell I'm doing that," Blair spat, "and you're perverted to even suggest it."

Chuck sighed, running his hand through his hair before kneeling at Blair's side. "You make it sound like I'm proposing something indecent."

"You _are,_" Blair said, lying primly on her hospital bed, attempting to be unmoved by the puppy-dog look on his face.

"It's a wheelchair, Blair," Chuck said, rolling his eyes. "Not the camera crew from a porno set."

She crossed her arms defiantly. "You know, I think I'd actually prefer that you suggested we make a porno then be pushed around in that _thing_."

"Oh, you did _not_ just give him that opening," Eric piped up from the corner of the room, where he sat stuffing his face with the petit fours that Chuck had brought for Blair.

"Contrary to popular notion, I am not a sexual deviant," Chuck protested.

"You kind of are," Serena contributed lazily. "I mean, I've never seen someone naked more times than I've seen you."

"Me neither," Blair contributed.

"As if that counts," Chuck responded, giving up on convincing her to get in the wheelchair and instead spreading out next to her on the bed.

"Even before we got together," Blair protested, running her finger over the back of Chuck's hand. "It seemed like a party wasn't a party unless you took off your clothes in a public place."

"I still think that's true," Chuck grinned.

"And yet, how society and rules of good taste think differently," Eric sang.

"Shouldn't you be at school," Chuck shot back.

"Shouldn't _you_?"

Chuck seemed to be struck momentarily deaf as he focused his attention on the nape of Blair's neck. "That's all beside the point," he murmured. "The point is trying to convince Blair that the wheelchair is a good thing."

Serena cocked her head to the side as she watched them. It was strange for someone who had been so vocally disgusted by the more physical aspect of Chuck and Blair's relationship to feel suddenly so sorry for them, now that they had lost it. After two life-saving surgeries, with a broken leg, Chuck and Blair found themselves suddenly without the one connexion that had never been in doubt between them.

She remembered the first time she and Blair had talked about Chuck in _that _way. Of course, over the course of their many sleepovers, when the conversations lasted all night and their sides ached from laughing desperately at their own audacity, they had made disgusted references to their friend's incessant dirty jokes and many sexual conquests. With all the righteousness of children who didn't know a thing about the real world, they agreed that it was simply disgusting.

As the years passed, Serena became achingly aware of her own power of men and the feeling of being the epicentre of a social world. Their friendship group divided once more in that perfectly balanced way they had perfected at the time, and Serena had found herself allied with Chuck.

It was in the smallest details. Each shifting dynamic in their friendships always was in the details, in what they left unsaid but felt so desperately. So when Chuck would make on of his typically disgusting remarks, it was almost imperceptible, the way he and Serena would share a look when Nate and Blair looked confused. Really, their little group was a mess of crossed alliances; a perfect balance of weight so that the dynamic never wildly shifted in any particular direction. There was stability there, even when Serena's escapades with Georgina threatened to throw them into disarray at any moment.

It would never last, Serena had realized with a sense of prophetic finality. The perfect balance of their friendship would never be able to withstand even the slightest disruption; it was what Blair guarded against. And at that stage of her life, Serena took the greatest pleasure in pressing against those boundaries that defined her life. To shake the bars of her cage, she used to think. Although now, after years had passed, she found the sentiment embarrassingly simplistic and self-indulgent.

They had been having a conversation in Chuck's suite, while waiting for Nate to finish swimming training. Serena and Chuck had been sharing dirty jokes as Blair tried to focus on the guest list of her latest party. But, the dark looks she sent their way was not lost on Serena. And yet in spite of Blair's obvious disapproval, Serena found herself, considering Chuck for the first time, taking in the smooth brown of his hands and the arrogant slope of his cheek.

It seemed such a little thing. To toy with the idea of finally taking Chuck up on those disgusting remarks of his. Serena found herself more than once drifting into a strange world of fantasy: where she and Chuck wandered into the space they had both discovered with other people.

"How do you guys know?" Blair asked, suddenly from her position on the other side of the room. "How do you know when someone wants to…you know…have sex with you?"

Serena smiled coquettishly at Chuck. "Well Chuck basically just has to point at the next target…"

She knew, when Chuck shot her a sidelong glance that he was cottoning on to the intention behind her mildly flirtatious banter. And yet for the life of her, Serena couldn't tell what he was thinking. If she hadn't known that Blair would be furious at her for threatening the stability of their group of friends, Serena might have asked her what she thought was going on in Chuck's mind. Blair – who always seemed to discern every one of Chuck's gestures. Even now, Serena noticed the intense focus on Blair's face as she looked at Chuck.

"It's different for everyone," Chuck said absently, staring at his drink. "That's the most intoxicating part. Everyone has a different 'tell'."

Blair rolled her eyes, toying with the hem of her dress. "You think of sex as a poker game?"

When Chuck looked up and met Blair's eyes, Serena had a strange feeling that she was an intruder. It was not a position she was comfortable with: being a third wheel. Even with Nate and Blair she had always felt like she had a place. Now, as her friends looked at each other appraisingly, Serena was overcome with the sense that they would have liked to be alone. At this point in her life, though, when Serena relished being the glittering centre of attention, there was no possibility that she would leave them.

"It's true, though," Chuck said, inclining his head towards Serena without looking at her. "Take Serena, for example. She's a hair flip. When she's going in for the kill she starts toying with her hair and then she pushes it over her shoulder."

Serena smiled at him, fighting the feeling of being an outsider. "Am I that transparent?"

Another pause as Chuck settled her with a surprisingly cold look, one that caused her to deflate. "Yes."

"What about me, then?" Blair asked. "What is my 'tell'?"

"_You?_" Chuck asked with a smirk.

Blair lifted her chin defiantly. "Yes. _Me._ How would you know that I wanted you?"

"You'd have to be Nate Archibald to start with," Serena sing-songed, but Blair's face barely registered a reaction, staring at Chuck with a look of challenge on her face – both hands curled over the top of that ridiculous clip-board.

"It's the eyes," Chuck said suddenly. "Your eyes give you away."

There was an almost uncomfortable silence between them: when Chuck and Blair held each other's gazes stubbornly, until – surprisingly – Blair looked away. Sensing the tension, Blair snorted inelegantly. "Well it's pretty easy to get my meaning when I'm rolling my eyes at you."

Serena didn't quite know what to make of the entire conversation, but found it impossible to shake the thought of the way Chuck's eyes had been so dark when he looked at her. She had realized, then, that Chuck was one man who would never be as captivated by her as he was with Blair. It was then that Serena had felt herself hardening against him, determined to dismiss him as a pervert, rather than admit that a part of her wanted to see herself reflected in his eyes the way other men saw her. And yet, his dark eyes sought out Blair. They always had, Serena realized.

And now, long after the implicit tension that had crackled between them had been transformed into an infamous inability to keep their hands off each other, Serena was astounded at the way they had managed to wait so long before acting on the palpable tension that had existed between them. Even though she had been shocked by the sight of Chuck and Blair clinging onto each other so desperately in the bedroom at Blair's seventeenth birthday, she had been struck by a strange feeling of understanding.

It had been as if she'd suddenly had an answer to a question she had never even posed. From the moment she opened the door to them, Serena understood that there was something in the dynamic between Blair and Nate's best friend that she couldn't hope to understand. She had realized that Chuck and Blair had been breaking the rules that the Non-Judging Breakfast Club had laid down for themselves; they had disrupted the balance of the friendship group, excluding Serena and Nate in a tacit way that both had only suspected.

When she returned from boarding school, Serena had noticed, of course, the way Chuck and Blair seemed to have formed a silent alliance, but it was only now that she witnessed the sense of urgency – of passionate need – that had grown between them that for the first time, Serena realized the extent to which a delicate collection of rules and connexions had been destroyed in her absence

"Never going to happen," Blair said, breathlessly as Serena politely averted her eyes from Chuck's ministrations and Eric gaped at them unapologetically as he ingested more of his junk food. "In what weird parallel universe is it a good thing?"

"It'll help you get around," Serena contributed. "And we can make it a little less…you know…clinical. We could decorate it."

"Maybe we can put trading cards in the spokes," Eric suggested sarcastically.

Serena glared at him. "You are spending _way_ too much time with Chuck."

"Impossible," Chuck grinned, resting his hands behind his head arrogantly. "It's impossible to overdose on me. Besides, I act as a blonde hair antidote."

"I don't want to look like an invalid," Blair blurted out, before looking annoyed at her own honesty.

Chuck temporarily forgot about his adopted siblings and instead focused all his attention on Blair, who was temporarily avoiding his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I have the cast, the bruises - "

"You can barely see the bruises," Serena protested, only to be silenced by a dismissive gesture from Blair.

"The scars," she continued. "And now you want me to sit in a wheelchair and just seal the deal?"

"Using the wheelchair doesn't make you an invalid, Blair," Chuck said softly. "No one could make you an invalid. The wheelchair is nothing more than a way to get around. But if you don't want to be in it, I'll carry you around myself."

Blair raised an eyebrow. "Like a sherpa?"

"Like anything you want."

"Would you wear a costume?" she asked suggestively.

"What's the point?" Chuck asked, pressing the hand that had been stroking his face to his chest. "We both know you'll end up ripping it off before five minutes have passed."

"We don't have to take all of it off," she murmured, staring intently at her hand pressed against the beating of his heart.

"Guys," Eric groaned, opening a packet of chips. "We're still in the room."

"Yes," Chuck drawled. "Remind me why that is, again?"

The entire afternoon might have passed this way, with Chuck tracing circles on Blair's arm as he traded barbs with Eric, and as Serena settled herself awkwardly in the corner, wanting desperately for everything to return to how it had once been. The entire afternoon might have been wiled away quite pleasantly, had Jenny Humphrey not appeared at the door to Blair's room, her cheeks an excitable pink and her chest heaving.

"It's Nate and Dan," she said excitedly. "They're having a _fight_!"

"Oh no," Serena said, jumping to her feet and rushing out the door.

"Wait – an actual fight?" Eric said, as his face lit up and he threw to one side the crisps he had been snacking on ("Hospitals stress me out. So I fight that stress with complex carbohydrates and cheese flavouring").

Chuck couldn't have appeared more disdainful as he rolled his eyes at Blair. "Humphrey versus Man-Bangs," he drawled. "Quite the clash of the titans."

"Well," Eric crowed before bounding from the room. "What are we waiting for?"

"What indeed," Chuck said casually, looking at Blair's narrowed eyes before throwing a glance at the wheelchair.

"Oh get on with it then," she sighed, as if she were doing him a tremendous favour.

Chuck shrugged, as if it had been her idea all along. "If you insist."

"And you can wipe that smirk off your face," she muttered, keeping her head erect and her eyes challenging, as he pushed her briskly down the hall, not needing to look at him to know that he was having a mental victory dance.

"No deal," he smirked.

Serena had offered to accompany Nate to visit his father, but for some reason he had turned her down. The idea of her gleaming hair under the harsh fluorescent glow of the penitentiary's lights, looking at the Captain in an orange jumpsuit was too humiliating to withstand.

They had awoken early, in Serena's house, after she and her mother had exchanged rather sharp words in the kitchen. It was, in Serena's opinion, an intolerable double standard for Lily to allow Chuck and Blair to act as if they were the heads of the household, while Serena was forbidden to have Nate over to sleep. Lily had pointed out that Serena was Lily's daughter and living under her roof, and that as such, Serena should respect any ground rules that Lily should lay down.

At that point, Serena had pointed out that they were really all living under Bart's roof, and that if Lily were willing to provide an ouija board, she would be happy to ask his permission. Perhaps, Serena suggested smugly, she should ask Chuck: he was Bart's son, after all.

(At that point, Nate, who had been trying not to eavesdrop remembered with a sick swoop of the stomach that Serena had no idea about the truth of Chuck's paternity. He was almost certain that Lily had been struck with the same thought because almost immediately, she dropped the issue and said that as long as Anne Archibald didn't object, she would set up a guest bedroom for Nate.)

Nate never tired of waking up next to Serena; even though she tossed and turned like a fish. Even though he never slept quite as well when he slept with her in his bed, it was a marvel to wake up and find her there. Ever since her conversation with Dan, Nate had allowed himself to finally accept the fact that he and Serena were together – really together – and that after all these years of pining for her, he was finally allowed to call her his girlfriend.

Just that evening, when the guest bedroom door had cracked open, and Nate had smiled to himself when she crawled into bed next to him, she had traced a line down the side of his face.

"You know I'm in, right?" she asked anxiously. "I mean – with us. I'm in, too."

"I know," he said simply.

With Serena, he didn't need to make things more complex and involved than that. That was one thing that he would never understand about Chuck and Blair's relationship: the varying levels of text and subtext that made up the substance of their every interaction. When he and Blair had dated, he always had the sense that he was missing something; that he had let her down in some way that he couldn't understand, and she would never tell him.

Even he, who had never been a romantic and never really prone to whimsical thoughts, had been touched by the sight of Chuck passing his time in the hospital. He had fought them on every point, constantly wheedling some little privilege for Blair – even if it were something as small as getting her a better dinner or a softer pillow. He stage-managed everything, with an eye for nuance that Nate had never possessed.

He had come upon Chuck, just the day before, arguing with a nurse about the lamp he had insisted upon bringing in for her bedroom. It was a ridiculously elaborate and old-fashioned thing, and it would be entirely out of place in a hospital room. But, Blair would love the ornate, feminine ruffles, and Chuck seemed to think it was vitally important that her room be as hospitable as possible. The nurse held up her hands, trying to placate him, insisting that the lamp that had been provided in the room would be perfectly adequate and that it was against hospital policy to remove items of furniture in the absence of a pressing medical necessity.

"She's photosensitive," Chuck improvised. "She needs a gentle halogen light to read by."

"I see," the nurse said doubtfully. "Mr – what was it?"

"Bass," Chuck said after a moment's hesitation. "Chuck Bass."

As usual, the recognition, awe, and panic chased each other across her face. She hadn't recognised him, obviously. Nate was surprised that it had taken him that long to name-drop. Perhaps the moniker was not sitting as comfortably these days. Of course, even with Jack Bass as a father, Chuck would be "Chuck Bass". Although Nate knew that in Chuck's eyes, it would be irrevocably tarnished if the sordid story were revealed. He had never known Chuck Bass to baulk at scandal. Blair Waldorf, however, was a different matter. And to Chuck, there was no other opinion that mattered.

"That's nice, man," Nate grinned, as he took in the sight of Chuck carrying this ludicrous object. "I like the beads."

Chuck rolled his eyes at Nate, embarrassed that he had been discovered. "Can you just take the damn thing?"

"I'll do it right now, Mr. Bass," the nurse said sweetly, taking the thing in her hands as if it were a priceless artefact.

Alone at last, Chuck crossed his hands and glowered at Nate. "I urge you not to even consider starting with me…"

"You're good at it," he said suddenly.

"What?" Chuck said after a brief hesitation, trying to decipher Nate's comment.

"Being Blair's boyfriend," he said, shrugging. "You're good at it. Being with her."

Chuck refused to smile, and Nate hadn't expected him to. Nate knew that his friend would never consider performing any gesture that could be construed as giving Nate the right to assess his performance as Blair's boyfriend. But, Nate had known Chuck long enough to know that for some strange reason, Nate's opinion did count to him. Maybe not as much as it once had, but it mattered, regardless. And really, Nate was the only other authority on being Blair's boyfriend.

"It's easy," Chuck shrugged, before smirking. "You're just a slow learner."

"Spoken by the person who capsized the Captain's catamaran at Cape Cod."

Chuck shrugged. "I make no claims to be athletic. How is the Captain?"

It was only then that Nate realized that it had been over two months since he had spoken to his father. The first few weeks on the road with Serena had been such a delicious relief from the drama of Howard's courtroom that he hadn't been able to stomach the notion of calling his father. And then, after the initial period of release gave way to guilt, it had seemed as if too much time had passed, as if too many questions remained. To call had seemed am impossible thing to do. And so, soon enough, it had been easier not to call.

"He's fine," Nate lied.

It was then he decided to visit the Captain. And as expected, it had been an exhausting and rather sad experience. There was something tight in Howard's jovial smile – it had seemed so crass against the drab walls. He hadn't even commented on Nate's long absence, seemingly resigned to the fact that from now on, he had lost any semblance of the moral authority he'd had as Nate's father. And yet, they had skirted around the main issue, talking about school and old friends. Anne was in the Hamptons, at a funeral for some elderly matron that Nate only vaguely remembered.

Nate had secretly hoped that now that the secret world that his father had inhabited for most of Nate's life was laid to bare under harsh lights, they might have stumbled onto some honesty.

"Work hard, son. And look after your mother."

It was so staggeringly clichéd that Nate thought he might throw up. So, when he arrived at the hospital with the croissants that Chuck had asked him to bring, he was in a foul mood. And the last person he had wanted to see was Dan Humphrey.

Dan had alternated between icy hostility and barbed comments for the last fortnight, and Nate had gone from feeling contrite to being royally pissed off by the entire scenario.

Today, Dan was leaning against the wall, glaring at him with his sister at his side.

Nate had tried to understand his point of view, remembering how it had been when he had first heard about Chuck and Blair. But the less generous part of him couldn't help but resent Dan. After all, Nate had known Serena long before Dan had even gathered the stones to speak to her. Surely he had known that Serena and he were over when they had left New York with no warning. And even if he hadn't, surely it was time to stop constantly forcing their mutual friends to take sides. Just thinking it, Nate was filled with righteous anger.

Surely, it was time for Dan to get over himself. Nate had forgiven Chuck, hadn't he? Nate and Dan had been friends long before Chuck and Dan had formed their Oprah Book Club, so surely Dan could gather together enough maturity to give him the opportunity to talk out their differences.

Nate stopped directly in front of him, trying to mimic the cool and quiet voice that Chuck always used so successfully in tense situations. "Do you have something to say to me?"

Dan frowned at him, confused. "No."

Nate ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "Well then why do you keep staring at me?"

Dan stepped slightly towards him. "I'm sorry," he said sarcastically. "It's just that you're the spitting image of the guy who stole my girlfriend."

"Okay," Nate said, spreading his arms wide. "I get it. You're mad at me. But come on, man. This has to stop."

Dan stared at his feet. "I can't just _stop_."

Nate exhaled through his teeth. "Well, what's it going to take? Do you want to take a swing at me?"

"Maybe I do," Dan shrugged.

There was a long pause as all three occupants of the hallway stared at each other awkwardly.

"Wait, seriously?" Nate said, utterly thrown.

Dan shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I do."

Nate chuckled. "So what – are we going to do pistols at dawn or just fisticuffs outside?" [1]

Dan settled an irritated look on him. "You know, you could take this a little more seriously. I mean, you did steal my girlfriend."

"And date your best friend, whose now your girlfriend," Jenny contributed, looking thoroughly amused by the whole situation.

"Thanks for that, Jenny," Nate said, shooting her a look.

Dan seemed to be gathering steam. "Well, then. What's it going to be? Shall we settle this outside?"

"Wait. Now?"

"Unless you're…you know. Scared."

Nate could scarcely believe this was happening. Who would have thought that bookish Dan Humphrey would actually call him out this way? "Oh I'm terrified. Fine. You want to fight. Let's fight."

"Good, then."

The boys awkwardly walked down the hallway, eyeing each other distrustfully. Nate even let Dan walk through the sliding doors first. Jenny watched, amazed at how pathetic the entire endeavour was, convinced that they would soon enough recognise that it was too clichéd for words. Until, that is, Dan turned around and punched Nate directly in the nose. Jenny did not wait another second before careening down the hallway, calling out, "Fight! An actual fight!"

Outside, Nate clutched his nose. "Dude, what the hell? A little warning would have killed you?"

Dan rolled his eyes. "You don't _warn_ people before you punch them."

"Oh right," Nate said thoughtfully, before punching Dan square in the nose. "I forgot."

Neither boy really noticed that Jenny had mustered up a considerable crowd. The only person really objecting to the entire debacle was Serena, who shouted at both of them to stop immediately. Not that they were doing anything in particular, other than circling each other and kicking out towards each other in a strange rendition of a waltz. Certainly, Eric, Chuck and Blair seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, with Blair not even minding that she was in a wheelchair.

"Who are we going for?" Blair asked as the boys circled each other and Nate tried to get Dan into a headlock.

"They're both idiots," Chuck shrugged.

"It's a tough one to call," Eric commented as Dan pulled out some moves that he must have gotten from the _Karate Kid_. "I mean, Nate's dating my sister."

"But he did steal Dan's girlfriend," Jenny contributed.

"Although Dan and Vanessa started dating while Serena and Nate were off doing who-knows-what," Blair said thoughtfully. "Do you think we should intervene?"

Jenny, Eric and Blair turned expectantly to Chuck, who was staring blissfully at the sight of someone other than him being beaten up. Rolling his eyes at their automatic deference to him as the oldest male, he sighed and stepped forward. Unfortunately, at that moment, Nate was performing a particularly complex imitation of a scene from _Ali_, and didn't see Chuck come up to his left.

It was around that moment that Nate accidentally punched Chuck in the cheek. Everything seemed to stop as Chuck narrowed his eyes angrily and pressed his hand to the knot that was forming on his cheek.

"I'm so sorry, man," Nate said, mortified.

"Listen to me very carefully," he said in a dangerously low voice. "I think anyone watching that pathetic impression of a fight can tell that neither of you really want to continue this ridiculous feud. You got Serena. You got Vanessa. Both of you have clearly moved on, so grow up and get over it."

There was a moment of silence, as Nate and Dan seemed to consider his words. But, before either of them could say a word, Dan's cell phone went off. With a frown, Dan stared at the caller ID, before settling his eyes on Chuck.

"It's Noah Shapiro," he said with surprise.

Chuck went to school that day, wanting to give Blair and her father time alone. Or at least, that was the story he'd given them.

Noah Shapiro of the _Paris Review_ had been calling Dan to gage his reaction to the possibility of writing the story he had performed preliminary research for – on Bart Bass and certain allegations of negligent manslaughter. Ever since Dan had told him, in the hallway of the hospital while Blair was in physio, Chuck's thoughts had been heavy and his stomach sick with the knowledge that he had been correct: that the illusion of stillness had been no more than a cosmic attempt to throw him off his game. Even though Dan had politely declined, Chuck knew that nothing was averted. A threat was coming, and until Chuck understood the nature of it, he would have to be prepared for anything.

He needed to think, and for some reason, sitting in a classroom as a professor droned on about economic or utilitarianism was easier than waiting for Blair's check-ups to be over. There was something reassuring about pulling on the old uniform that he had always hated. It was reassuring to walk with Nate and to have coffee with Dan, to exchange a smile with Jenny and Eric, and to glare at Nelly Yuki.

If the _Paris Review_ was interested in resurrecting a long-dead story about a long-dead tycoon, then the landscape must have changed somehow. Either new information had come forward, or this story was merely a prelude to a wider attack on the Bass name. For a fleeting instant, Chuck considered calling Jack Bass. But the thought of going to him for help made Chuck's stomach turn.

"I don't know, man," Dan said doubtfully, after pulling him aside. "If the story's alive, then someone else will write it. But the timing is strange. I mean, you're dad's been…you know…dead for a while. All Shapiro said was that there was some buzz that Bass was about to become news again."

Chuck had been looking through the window into Blair's room, where she and Jenny were sitting surrounded by magazines. The news from Blair's check-up had been good; the cast was coming off in the next few days. It was only with the news that life would soon be going back to normal that Chuck had begun to consider what was happening in the outside world, which had ticked on without his noticing.

Wanting to find some kind of rhyme and reason to the portents that he saw all around him, Chuck had even torn open that envelope that Jack had given him on his birthday. It only took a few minutes for Chuck to realize that it held no more than the guilty love letters exchanged between Jack and Constance Bass at the heights of their affair. He moodily pushed it to one side, deeply insulted that Jack had handed over the evidence of his adultery, and yet secretly fascinated by the contents.

He briefly considered calling some of the more sympathetic board members at Bass, but quickly discarded the thought. He didn't want to raise alarms, and he trusted Lily to let him know what was happening at Bass; she was his eyes and ears, and so far there seemed to be nothing to report. She had reassured him, told him to focus on Blair and school. Eleanor had been calling him every hour as she ran in and out of various meetings, wanting his updates on the situation at the hospital. It was surprising, this new willingness to include him, but Chuck was grateful for it.

She had confided in him that Harold and Roman were planning on returning to Provence within the week, and that she wanted to make sure that Blair was distracted.

"Although with Harold, everything is a three act play," Eleanor said, rolling her eyes. "It would have been nice if Aaron could have come to visit – but the artiste seems to be busy."

Chuck swallowed and made a non-committal noise. Harold had assured him that he had taken care of Aaron Rose, and that Chuck was to do nothing to provoke the situation. It was in the spirit of trying to be more conciliatory with Blair's father that Chuck hadn't questioned where Harold got the authority to order him to the men's room, let alone to determine the course of action he took with regards to Blair. [2] He would be, rather relieved when Harold left, even though he knew that Blair would be devastated. He assumed that Harold, was going to tell Blair of his intention to return to his adoptive country this morning, when they would be alone. And then it would fall to Chuck to wipe her tears away and assure her that some people in her life would never leave her.

When his phone had gone off around midday, he thought it might have been Blair, wanting him to return to the hospital. But, when he viewed the caller ID, Chuck saw an unidentified number flash across the screen. He felt a swoop of foreboding; it was this sense that he had been unable to shake off, this pressing belief that something bad was about to happen. That forces unseen were amassing: prepared to come upon them soon enough.

Perhaps he would let it go to voicemail. But of course, Chuck was too curious to simply ignore an unidentified caller. And listening to the voice message would just extenuate the process. Without offering his teacher any explanation, he stepped out from behind his desk and hurried outside to the hallway. "Chuck Bass," he snapped.

"Chuck Bass," came a hurried, smug voice. "Greg Attenborough from the _New York Times_."

Chuck paced in the hallway, agitated. "Tell me that the paper of record is not calling me in the middle of the school day for a PR question that could be better handled by the Bass Industries publicity department?"

"School," the man cleared his throat. Chuck noticed that the reminder that he was still at school had thrown this Attenborough fellow. This did nothing to calm his nerves; if there was a touch of guilt about the man, then that could only mean that the story was something Chuck _really_ wouldn't want published. "The story I'm putting to bed is not about Bass Industries. It's about you."

"An endlessly fascinating topic, I am sure." Chuck paused. He knew that there were several PR stories about his charity work being written, but rarely had they required any more than a typed statement. A personal call was a totally different ball game. Chuck felt a prickle of trepidation. There were any number of things he would never want public, and Attenborough sounded just a tiny bit too smug to be writing a puff piece on the reformed bad boy of Bass Industries. "What exactly is this article about?"

The line was silent for so long that Chuck could have sworn that it had cut out. But he knew better than to speak; he would sound nervous. Inventories of his indiscretions were running through his head, along with potential alibis. Eighteen years on the planet, and all Chuck could boast was a colourful past. Any of these indiscretions, although they would be embarrassing for him and horrible for Blair, would be preferable to the larger secrets that could come out, although for the life of him, Chuck didn't know how Greg Attenborough of the _New York Times_ could know any of them.

Attenborough's voice brought him back to earth. "It's about the affair that Constance Bass had with Jack Bass – and the child that resulted."

An awkwardly phrased description, Chuck mused coolly. He hoped for the reporter's sake that his story was worded more elegantly than that. "Which child would that be?"

"You," Attenborough said, more boldly this time.

Chuck felt a wave of panic, but when he spoke, his voice was cool. "And what makes you think I will allow that…story…to go to print?" Chuck was certain to pause enough over the word 'story' to make clear that he didn't believe it for a moment.

"The fact you have no choice; I have it cold," the man said flatly. "You think I'd risk writing it if I wasn't sure that I could support the accusations?"

Chuck had to concede his point, even as panic started ringing in his ears. "Who?"

There was a pause. "Jack Bass has made a statement."

Chuck was almost surprised by the feeling of betrayal that washed over him. It was so strong that he had been forced to sit down in the hallway. That Jack would try so deliberately to hurt him was actually rather surprising. Despite the anger and resentment that characterised every one of Chuck's interactions with the man, a part of him had imagined that Jack would have some protective instinct when it came to his welfare. A part of him had imagined that somewhere, there was a person who wanted to be some paltry version of a father for him.

An awkward pause followed the subtle threat. The reporter cleared his throat. "The reason I'm calling is to ask whether you'd like to comment?"

"I have a few comments," Chuck said grimly. "But I believe that most of them would have to be censored."

"That's funny," Attenborough said in his brusque manner. "That's almost exactly what Blair Waldorf just said to me."

_Fuck._

It was as if Chuck's very body was singing the profanity. A part of him was quite interested by the sensation of freefall. _So this what it felt like for everything to come crashing down_, he thought. But the larger part of him was in a state of total panic. For a moment, he considered flatly denying the entire thing. Even as he thought that, he was calculated how long it would take to simply sprint to Blair's hospital bed from St Jude's. What had he been thinking, going to school? He could have just sat outside while Harold and Blair had their quality time. He should never have left her unguarded to clear his head at school

There was only one question that managed to slip passed the white noise that filled his brain.

Chuck's voice was surprisingly steady. "Who told you about Blair?"

There was silence on the other end of the phone. "I was calling merely to inform you that the story would be leaked on the website within the hour."

"Who told you about Blair?" Chuck breathed.

"My sources are confidential, Mr. Bass - "

Chuck hung up on him. The time for retribution would come later. Now, all that mattered was reaching Blair.

Neither Blair nor Harold had spoken for what seemed like hours, although in reality it must have been under ten minutes.

Harold shot his daughter worried looks as she stared blankly out the window. They were seated in the rather uncomfortable chairs, in her room, where Chuck had passed so many fitful evenings when Blair was unconscious. He shifted on the uncomfortable thing, his eyes taking in the various knick-knacks that Chuck had smuggled into the room, the most recent of which was a rather ridiculous lamp.

"Blair," Harold started, "I think you should reconsider my offer."

"Just," she held her hand up, still transfixed by the bushes outside her window. "Please. Just…give me another minute."

Harold stood up and took a few unsteady steps towards the bed where Blair had spent too much time over the last few weeks. She had lost weight, and Harold found it all too easy to forget that this frail-looking girl was all but grown up. She looked more like the young girl he had brought toys for than she had since he arrived back in New York at Eleanor's request. A part of him wanted to scoop her up and take her home – to keep her from those outside forces that threatened her without thought of her fragile frame.

She wasn't fragile, though. Not really.

It was Roman who reminded him of this fact whenever he fell into one of his rants about the "situation" in New York, as he called it. Those nasty rumours that had circulated about Blair on GossipGirl, and the relationship with Chuck.

At the thought of Chuck, Harold pressed his fingers to his temples.

The telephone had gone off quite unexpectedly, after Harold had broken the news to Blair about his imminent return to France, and tentatively offered an invitation for her to come with him.

"So much has happened," Harold said, his hand on her uninjured knee. "That we never got the chance to finish the conversation we had about what sort of life you were leading here in New York."

Harold could almost see her defences rising. "If this is about Chuck, then you should know that he is the _only_ one who hasn't left my side during this - "

"It's not about Chuck," Harold said, placating her. "Truth be told, he's growing on me a little. But the fact of the matter is that there is a broader concern here."

"The broader concern is me, isn't it?" Blair asked quietly.

"Chuck cares about you deeply. I can see that – anyone can see that. But my concern isn't about that. It's about how your association with him, with this entire social circle, has made you into a different person. Has made you into a person I barely recognise." Blair turned her head away, seemingly slipping into a deep space inside of her, far from his view. He was losing her; he could sense it. "Come back to France with me and Roman. Take some time out from your life here. Figure out who you are. If Chuck really cares about you – and I think he does – he will understand."

Blair settled him with a haunting look. She seemed about to say something, when suddenly her phone went off.

In the silence that had followed the shocking phone call from Greg Attenborough, Harold had been carefully considering who would have Blair's phone number, outside of her friends, family, the school, perhaps Yale, and maybe her mother's assistant. Harold had been a little afraid of the degree to which Blair had become associated with Chuck; to the extent that a journalist's research would expose a close personal connexion. Attenborough had been trying to wheedle a quote from her, undoubtedly wanting to shock something quotable from her by telling her the story when she was entirely unprepared for it.

"May I ask what this is about?" she asked, almost pleasantly, turning her head away from her father's gaze.

As Harold watched, her eyes narrowed. "That's impossible. Jack _actually_…? And you're actually going to print something so hurtful without so much as telling… I see. Jack indicated that Charles already?" Harold watched Blair's face turn white and saw her swallow twice. "And what, exactly are you calling _me_ for? Well yes, I have quite a number of comments, but I doubt the editor of the _New York Times_ would allow any of them to go to print."

At that point, Harold gestured to her to give him the phone.

A part of him had been inexplicably sad for Chuck – it had surprised him, actually, this feeling of protectiveness that came over him. He had, after all, known both Chuck and Bart for most of Blair's schooling. In a way, this whole ordeal explained a great deal about the dynamic between Bart and Chuck.

Of course, the fact remained – and the only thing that really mattered to Blair – that Chuck had known the truth and had failed to tell her of it.

"Am I correct in assuming that you had no idea about any of this?" Harold asked.

"He never said a word," Blair said flatly. "He didn't tell me."

Harold bit his lip, before kneeling in front of his daughter. "Blair-bear. This makes me even more certain that the best course of action is for you to come to France – to get away before the circus comes to town."

"You still want me to leave," Blair said in that same, unaffected voice she had been using since she had learnt the truth about Chuck's parentage.

"Even more, now," Harold said confidently, trying to reach her through the shock of learning Chuck's secret. "Sweetie, this is going to get ugly. I mean, I don't think you appreciate the scale of what's about to happen - "

She fixed him with a hard look. "I think I have _some_ sense of the scale of what's about to come. Or didn't you hear? My father, the famous corporate lawyer, turns out to be a homosexual."

Harold pulled back slightly, surprised at her harsh tone. "Well, multiply that to the nth degree, and you'll have a sense of what kind of spectacle we're in for. It will be pandemonium. And I have to ask whether you're really prepared to go through all that for someone who didn't even trust you with this information."

He had expected her to cry at his harsh words. He had expected her to need his comfort. But instead, she lifted her chin and looked him directly in the eye. "What Chuck does or does not choose to tell me is a matter between me and him."

"So that's it?" Harold spat, standing up to his full height. "You're just going to accept the fact that he lied to you – has been lying to you? You're not even angry?"

"I'm furious," Blair said quietly. "But I'm still not leaving."

"Why _not_?" Harold asked, frustrated. "How can you not see that this boy is making you into someone you're not? Don't get me wrong; I feel for him, I honestly do. But he does not get to drag my daughter through a seven-ring circus just because she happens to be his girlfriend. How can you stay here?"

Somewhere in the course of his impassioned speech, she had closed her eyes. This preternatural calmness had thrown him; he recognised it from Chuck's own bearing. Harold had never been good at hiding his emotions, and faced with his daughter's icy calmness, he was uncertain of his footing.

"It's you, who doesn't see, Daddy," she said quietly, opening her eyes. "And it's my fault, really. It's just that I always wanted to be the way you saw me. But the fact of the matter is, that whatever this person who worries you so much, who you're scared of, is…well that's who I am."

"I don't believe that," Harold said, sitting on her hospital bed. "I'm your father. No one knows you better then me."

"Yes," Blair said softly. "They do. But I think the problem is that you don't want to see it. But, I can't be someone else because you want me to be. And the fact of the matter is, that I'm starting quite like who I am."

He stared at her, dumbfounded. "So that's it? You're going to stay here?"

She sighed. "Something horrible is about to happen to Chuck. I have to let him explain. And if you imagine for a minute that I could let something terrible happen to someone I love without standing by him. Well, then. I suppose you don't know me at all."

Not for the first time, Blair had left him speechless. For some reason, his hand wandered to the cravat Roman had tied around his neck at the breakfast table that morning. It seemed to be pressing on his throat uncomfortably. "I don't know what to say, Blair."

She took a shuddering breath. "Then just promise me one thing. Promise that you'll stay for a few extra days and help Chuck. With Bass Industries, I mean. I expect that this is going to have some impact on his standing with the Board."

He nodded, getting to his feet, glancing at her as she started gazing out of the window once more. "I didn't expect you to be so calm. I thought you'd be angry."

She offered him a tight smile. "I could kill him with my bare hands. But, I can't stand what's about to happen to him."

It was as if any residual impression he'd had of Blair as a little girl had been shattered in a moment. She had never appeared quite so grown up to him as she did at that moment, in one of her feminine nightdresses with an oversized cast on her leg. She had joked to him that she would have to call her beautician immediately to have the leg waxed when they cut her out of it. He had laughed at the joked, but part of him had hated the fact she was old enough to worry about something like that. It was a tyranny of distance, really. He had chosen to leave this city behind him, to seek out a truer life. At the very least, he owned his daughter the courtesy of living in truth herself.

"I want to know you, Blair," Harold said softly. "It's all I want."

She might have said something sweet to him then; she gave him a gentle smile and made a gesture as if she had some kind word for him. But at that moment, the door to the hospital room flew open, causing the shutters to rattle, and Chuck Bass stood before them, wild-eyed and huffing, clutching a large envelope in his hands.

"I'll leave the two of you alone," Harold said softly.

When he passed Chuck at the door to Blair's room, he did something that surprised both of them. Almost without thinking, Harold pressed one of his hands on the boy's shoulder, smiling at him sympathetically. Chuck was so blindsided by the gesture that he didn't have time to offer a word in response. Harold said nothing, but left him alone to face Blair.

He had rushed down here in his limo, stopping only to pick up the envelope that Jack had given him for his birthday, and had scarcely allowed it to come to a full stop before he hurtled out of the door and into the hospital. He hadn't even begun to consider what he would say to her when they were face-to-face; all that had driven him was a sense that if he didn't find her as fast as possible, then she would be lost to him forever. It was, possibly, a mark of how much he had changed – the way that running away hadn't even occurred to him.

"Blair," he said, his voice crackling with intensity.

He wasn't sure what he expected, but it was certainly not the sight of her sitting in one of those uncomfortable chairs, fiddling with the top of her cast. She could scarcely look at him; her face seemed bruised and vulnerable. Chuck hated that it was his fault.

Chuck had never noticed that if you were completely silent in the room, you could hear a faint buzzing noise.

"Just tell me one thing," Blair said softly. "Would you ever have told me?"

Chuck took a shaky step towards her. "I tried to tell you, I swear. That night, when I told you about Princeton. I wanted to tell you then."

"You've seen me quite a few times since then," Blair said, her voice gaining strength. Chuck merely nodded. He had made an agreement with himself that he wouldn't try to defend himself, fighting every instinct in himself to act as the aggressor. "Who else knows?"

Chuck swallowed, standing before her, on the opposite side of her bed, as if he were a naughty schoolboy who had been hauled in front of the headmistress. "_Jack_," he said bitterly. "Lily. Nate and Vanessa."

"Nate and Vanessa," she breathed incredulously. "You told Nate and Vanessa?"

"Blair, I - " for some strange reason, he felt light-headed. It hadn't occurred to him, as he tore through the traffic to get here, that he had been hurrying towards the end of his relationship with Blair. He hadn't even considered that possibility. But looking at her hard face and hurt eyes, he realized suddenly that he may have used up his last chance with her. And the thought terrified him.

"How long?" she said, her voice starting to waver.

"Blair - "

"Just answer the question," she said sharply.

"I found out at the reading of the will. At the same time Lily found out. Jack knew. My…_mother_…she'd told him when she got pregnant." He paused, stealing glances at her face. "Although I suppose you can read all about it on the cover of the _Times_ tomorrow."

Chuck settled his eyes on the wall behind her head. When he had come in here after she had woken up and she had tried to break up with him, he had been so furious with her, so struck with the injustice of the scene, that he had managed to get in some angry words. If she broke up with him now, he had the sudden unpleasant thought that all he would be capable of doing was breaking down and crying – begging her to reconsider. He had never envisaged himself as someone who would make themselves pathetic to gain forgiveness from someone else.

"Please, Blair," he said desperately. "Please say something. Yell at me. Something. Anything would be better than this."

So much had changed when she had crashed into his life. He could scarcely believe the change in himself. For some reason, his eyes fell on that ridiculous lamp he had carried around the hospital, and he felt an insane sort of laugh bubbling in the back of his throat. Luckily, Blair started speaking again, and all thoughts of laughter disappeared.

"I want to be so mad at you," Blair said quietly, tears forming in her eyes. "But my first thought was what _I_ did wrong. Why you didn't feel like you could tell me? And it makes me so sad, and I hate feeling that way. Because I should be angry at you."

Chuck felt an alien prickle behind his eyes. He could count the times he had cried on one hand, and yet it seemed that most of them had been over the last year, and most of them about Blair. He didn't trust himself to speak, instead gritting his teeth and trying to avoid humiliating himself.

"I just don't understand why?" Blair said suddenly. "Just…why didn't you tell me? Why did you tell Nate and _Vanessa_ when you couldn't tell me?"

"I'm Chuck Bass," he said stiffly, still fighting back those traitorous tears.

"That's not good enough, Chuck," she said, tears finally escaping from her eyes. "Not this time."

"I'm trying to explain it to you," he said sharply, hating this feeling of explaining himself, but wanting desperately for her to understand. "And…I mean…it's kind of like Yeats…"

"_Yeats_?" Blair asked incredulously.

"Just, let me finish," Chuck said, his jaw twitching. "The only way I can explain it is…well, you know the Yeats poem, "the Lake Isle of Innisfree"?"

"I know the poem, Chuck," she snapped, wiping angrily at her eyes. "I just don't see how it - "

"You're Innisfree," he said flatly.

Blair took in a sharp breath. "What?"

He looked at her with an expression on his face that told her that he found it unbearable to tell her these things – that he would tell no one but her – and that if she were to push him away or laugh at his words, he might never recover. She loved these moments, not matter how angry she was. He would look at her through his surprisingly long eyelashes and tell her something that would leave her breathless.

"I read the poem," he said stiffly. "And it seemed so strange to me. What he was describing. And I told Dwight that if I were going to build my dream house I would do something better than have nine bean-rows and some cabin. And he said – and it was nothing really – he said that it was a mental place of such purity and freedom that could just drive you to tears."

Blair remembered that beautiful house in the Hamptons: Barbiston. From the night she had first imagined Chuck pressing his weight down upon her in the pool-house, she had been unable to summon the image of Nate in the front garden. It was as if her passing thought had exorcised the entire place of the thought of her relationship with Nate. It had come to represent something unspoken between her and Chuck: something she scarcely acknowledged at the time and which she didn't think he'd even known.

"And you know the place?" Blair whispered.

"You _are_ the place, Blair," he said desperately. "I know it sounds stupid and I'm channelling Humphrey by talking about poetry, but I don't know how else to explain it to you. What you are to me…that's Innisfree, I think. And I didn't want anything to change that."

"So you didn't tell me about Jack," Blair interrupted, with dawning understanding. "You thought it would change things between us."

"I'm Chuck Bass," he said bitterly. "For years that's been my answer to everything. And that's who you fell in love with. I couldn't _not_ be him anymore. With Nate – with Vanessa – it didn't matter as much. But I couldn't risk it with you."

Blair sighed, staring at her hands folded in her lap. For some reason, she felt weighed down, even in the face of her relief at finding out this one last secret of his. "It never mattered to me, Chuck. Who your father was, what your name was. I don't want you to ever try to play-act someone else. I just want you to be who you are…and be with you when you do it."

Chuck circled his way around the hospital bed, tentatively at first, before kneeling down in the same way that Harold had. He had always imagined that kneeling down before someone would be an intolerable act of stooping, and yet kneeling before Blair, feeling her resolve crumbling when he pressed his hands against her skin, letting his head rest in her lap, he knew that nothing could feel more natural. With a shaking hand, he placed the envelope that Jack had given him on his eighteenth birthday on the table next to her.

"I want you to know everything, Blair," Chuck whispered. "Jack gave me that on my birthday. It's all the letters – the…well…it's everything that ever happened between him and my mother, basically. I haven't read much of it. I want you to have it."

Almost in spite of herself, Blair reached out to touch the envelope, which contained the secret origins of Chuck Bass. Finally, here was an insight into that dark place that she had sensed lingering behind his eyes, where even she couldn't reach him. Without thinking, she reached out to stroke his hair.

"Please forgive me, Blair," Chuck whispered, almost weeping with relief at her touch.

She lifted his face so that he was looking at her, tilting her head to the side, considering, momentarily forgetting all about the envelope. It was as if she were taking stock of her own responses. "I forgive you, Chuck. Of course I do."

Gazing at his face, all she could think of was how horrible the passed year had been, and how alone he had been. It was strange how much loving Chuck had transformed her. She had once told Jenny that she hated secrets more than anything. But there was one thing that she hated more: the thought of his suffering. The next few days – weeks, months – would be full of snickering and snide remarks. It would be horrible for him, and she knew that the public would be merciless.

"It's so unfair, Chuck," she whispered, holding his face in her hands. "It seems like your whole life you've had to pay for other people's mistakes. It's unending. There's no safe haven, no place to hide."

He didn't quite know what to say to her, so he just placed his hand over hers on his cheek. "You're where I hide," he whispered, before reaching up to kiss her on the lips.

It was only when the darkness of her hair obscured his view of the world that he allowed himself to shed tears for the life he would lose forever.

And to shed tears of relief that he was still safe in Innisfree.

[1] The entire inspiration for this fight was from the ridiculous Hugh Grant / Colin Firth fight in _Bridget Jones' Diary_.

[2] A _West Wing_ quote.


	21. Chapter 21: Poetry of Departures Part I

A/N: This chapter is getting ridiculously long, so I have decided to post the final chapter in two parts. Enjoy!

**Chapter Twenty-One:** **Poetry of Departures – PART ONE**

_Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,_

_As epitaph:_

_He chucked up everything_

_And just cleared off,_

_And always the voice will sound_

_Certain you approve_

_This audacious, purifying,_

_Elemental move._

_And they are right, I think._

_We all hate home_

_And having to be there:_

_I detest my room,_

_It's specially-chosen junk,_

_The good books, the good bed,_

And my life, in perfect order…

- Philip Larkin, "Poetry of Departures"

*

"We brought breakfast," Serena said with false brightness that jarred Chuck's ears. "Croissants and compote. And Nate has bone-dry cappuccinos, Blair. Although if you're discharged tomorrow, I suppose we can drink these on the steps of Constance for old time's sake."

Blair smiled at her friend, even as she cast a concerned look in Chuck's direction. She was glad that Serena and Nate had made the effort to appear at the door to her hospital room, arms brimming with breakfast treats, on the morning of Chuck's public humiliation. But, she also knew that Chuck would see through it immediately. Once Chuck had assessed a social situation, it was anybody's guess how he would choose to react. Blair hoped that he would take Serena's grating cheeriness in the way it was intended: as an attempt to assuage the embarrassment and gossip of the day ahead. An attempted normalcy, which Blair intuited would sit ill with Chuck.

After all, with _The New York Times_ now readily available at every newsstand in the city, everyone would know his secrets.

Blair knew how much he hated to feel exposed, and she had feared desperately that he would push her away in order to find some space to breathe. It would be like him to try to forge a personal space in a time like this. But so far, he had been so terrified of losing her in the face of his final secret that his response had been to cling to her even more tightly.

It had been a cramped and sleepless night, with Chuck visited by those nightmares Blair had hoped he had ridded himself of for good. Although it was impossible for her to identify any singular image in his garbled explanations during the feverish night, one particular image he had described had stayed with her: that of Chuck laid out on a mortician's table, unclaimed by his family, friends, or even Blair herself. It was an image of such desolation that he would wake himself up to escape it, filled with a towering dread that he would be once, finally, completely alone.

But each time he awoke, his hair slick with sweat, and his chest heaving, she was there, running her hands through his hair and kissing his face. The moment when he emerged from these night terrors, he would cling to her arms so hard that he left bruises. He would hate himself for that in the morning, when their roles reversed and he took charge of her morning ritual of bathing with her broken leg.

"Chuck," Serena enthused, allowing the delicious smell of pastries to fill the room. "Have you tried the brioche?"

"Yes," Chuck dead-panned. "I froze time and tried the brioche without you knowing before returning time to it's usual speed. That's how you missed it."

"Nate also brought something," she said, nudging Nate, who had a newspaper folded under his arm. Blair felt a swoop of fear, before reassuring herself that they would never be so unsubtle as to bring the article into the comparative safety of her room.

Nate smiled uncertainly. "It's a copy of the only newspaper that _won't _contain a story about you today, man."

Chuck raised an eyebrow before reaching out for the tabloid. When he read the title, he looked over at Blair, raising an eyebrow. "It's the _Northern Iowan_."

"I hear it's the paper of record for college student in Northern Iowa," Nate explained.

With the flair of a showman, Chuck opened the paper, flipping easily through the first six or so pages. " 'Billionaire Bass a Bastard'," he read. "Page six, above the fold. Well done Nathaniel."

"Nate," Serena cried, outraged. "You _said_ you checked to make sure that Chuck wasn't in it."

"It was a college newspaper from _Iowa_," Nate protested, crestfallen. "I didn't think I needed to."

"Well at least the brioche is good," Blair murmured, preparing a pastry for Chuck. His face had taken on a strange, hooded look. She reached out to touch his arm, to bring him back to her. "I can't believe you only made page six."

"In my defence, the first three pages are about the closing of a local bar and the shenanigans of the college football club," Chuck explained, offering her a wan smile.

He had not smiled at her this morning, when they had awoken with a grim sense of readying themselves for battle. She had idly suggested, as he pulled her nightdress over her head, that she should come out with him to meet the press when he departed for the emergency Board meeting that had been called.

"I should get in that _thing_," Blair had said, indicating towards the soon-to-be useless wheelchair, "and sit next to you when you leave the building."

"You want me to make the mainstream press feel sorry for me?" Chuck said in a low and dangerous voice.

"No Chuck," Blair said stubbornly. "I want to show them that there is more to you than just a headline. I want them to see who it is they're trying to crucify."

"I won't put you through that," he said flatly. "I won't allow it. You're too…precious to me."

"So what? I'm just meant to sit here and let you go out into the storm by yourself."

"It's my storm."

"No Chuck," she said quietly. "It's a storm that started before you were even born. And I hate that you have to weather it."

There was nothing really to say about that, so Chuck merely shrugged and continued helping Blair with those everyday tasks that had once come so naturally. As Chuck carried her into the bathroom, helping her protect her cast from the bathwater, and kissing her skin as it knitted itself back together, Blair mused that she would never have been able to predict the way her relationship with Chuck would change.

They had enjoyed some fairly staggering romantic moments in their time together, and certainly Chuck had the means to offer her the type of romance that many would never experience in their lives. But as he helped her out of her clothes - even helped her shave her one free leg – she realized that the romance she had so carefully constructed during her relationship with Nate was really meaningless. _This _was love. It was something as simple and vital as the jokes he made to take her mind off her embarrassment.

For a moment, she was filled with an insane desperation to keep him close to her always. She sat on the side of the bath and he knelt before her, checking to see that every inch of her cast was covered with a protective layer of plastic. Without warning, she wrapped her arms around him and clutched him a desperation that scared her. How was she going to survive without him? How was she going to walk into the gates of Yale and know that she wouldn't see him every day? How could she be without him for a minute?

And for an insane moment, she hated him desperately for becoming someone new: for not being that selfish, boorish party animal who would never have considered college as an option. She hated him for learning to stand on his own feet and for discovering a part of himself that craved knowledge. She wished that he could be hers entirely.

Blair felt tears filling her eyes, as Chuck murmured soothing words into her ears and asked her to tell him what was bringing this on under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital bathroom.

"I'm sorry," she said raggedly, struggling to draw breath. "I just don't know what I'm going to do without you. I mean…I just don't know how to be without you anymore."

A small, ungenerous part of her was thrilled to see the look of panic that flickered across his face. "You don't have to be without me, Blair. Not ever."

She pulled back, clutching his face in her hands. "I wish that was true. But it's just not. We're going to college soon. And the fact of the matter is that we're not going to be with each other all the time."

"It doesn't matter," he said, desperately, pressing his own hands over hers. "We'll make it work."

"It's calls and texts," Blair fretted. "It's emails that get shorter and shorter. It's a whole new life."

"I don't care," he said with a startling intensity. "We won't change. I know that most _couples_ - _"_ he said the word with the usual distaste he displayed when comparing his relationship with Blair to any other high school relationship " – break-up. But we're different, Blair. I know everyone thinks that. But we are."

She closed her eyes, angry with herself for bringing it up on this of all days. "I hope for my sake that you're right. Because wherever you go, even if it's far away from me, you take all of love with you."

For a moment he stared at her with those almond-shaped eyes of his, giving her the most scorching and probing look she had ever come across. "Your love will be safe with me." [1]

"I'm sorry," she said, the panic leaving her in the face of his quiet certainty. "I shouldn't have brought this up today."

"You never have to apologise for telling me how you feel about me," he grinned. "Now let's get you naked."

They had been surprised when Nate and Serena arrived. When the door had opened, the four of them had stared at each other, remembering the various ways they had let each other down in the last few years. There had been a staggering realignment of their little group of friends, but for the life of them, none could claim that they had been entirely blameless in the serendipity of their relationships. Despite the way they had come together in the light of Blair's accident, it was impossible to say that all of their relationships were completely mended.

With Nate, Blair had sat up straight, constantly watching his eyes as they took in a scene. To see Nate looking at another girl – especially at Serena – was a torturous fixation for her. And yet, it was ironic to see that with Chuck – such a renowned Don Juan – she never doubted for a moment that his eyes were upon her. And they always were. It was terrifying, really, to think how easily none of this could have happened between Chuck and Blair. It was terrifying for each of them to think of how easily they could have been sitting as they had once sat.

As they filled up on the vast spread of breakfast food, Blair found herself regarding Nate and Serena fondly. "This is nice," she observed, running her hands through Chuck's hair as he luxuriated on her hospital bed. "Like old times. Except – better, I think."

"Please Blair," Chuck groaned. "Can we resist the urge to write a folk song about this?"

"What?" she grinned. "It _is _nice."

"You sound like an _Everwood _voiceover," Chuck grumbled. "It's like saying 'I suppose you could say we all learned a lot that summer…'"

"Or, 'so in the end, it was the best summer ever,'" Serena contributed.

"We'd need to make it more appropriate for the situation," Blair observed.

Nate stared contemplatively at his croissant before breaking into a wide grin. "What about, 'now we really are the Non-Judging _Breakfast_ Club'?"

He barely had time to duck before three bagels flew at his head.

Of course, the moment for levity had ended when Harold Waldorf arrived wearing a stunning suit and a grave expression. It had unfortunately correlated with the time that Blair had to hurry off to have her final check up before her cast was removed (Chuck would have liked to be there when the sharp scissors freed her leg from its prison). Serena and Nate made their excuses, each hugging Chuck and wishing him the best of luck. He merely shrugged impassively, uncertain how to feel.

Harold had been surprisingly warm to him, and had offered him a wealth of advice about what to expect from the meeting. He had clearly spent the last day reading the Bass Industries constitution, and Chuck was moved by his attempts – even if they were motivated by the desire to keep Blair happy.

They had fallen into a comfortable silence as Chuck pulled on his suit, not even particularly caring that his shirt was rumpled after lounging around with his friends. He found a strange sense of fatality grow within him, and couldn't shake the feeling that he was heading for a meeting that would mark his downfall: at least in the eyes of Bass Industries. Although he felt his grip on Bart's legacy loosening, Chuck was surprised to observer how little the thought bothered him. As time passed, the towering desire to be accepted by Bart Bass had receded.

Preparing to joust with Jack Bass, however, was a different story. In the grand history of father-figures, Chuck was fairly certain that his were a sorry bunch. After Jack's most recent betrayal, Chuck was about ready to drop the entire endeavour. Chuck was so lost in thought that he didn't notice Harold staring at him.

Harold had never noticed how sad Chuck's face could become with the merest shift of light. Those features of his that could take on the elegance and callousness of a poisonous flower seemed predisposed for tragedy, and Harold realized with a strange and daunting certainty that Chuck was aware of his own predisposition to tragedy.

"When you walk into the room," Harold said seriously. "Keep your chin up. Look everyone of them in the eye."

"Will that help?" Chuck asked, fastening his tie. Harold was glad that his attention was elsewhere, because in that moment he wasn't certain that he would be able to hide the sympathy he felt for the boy. To see the toppling of one so proud and battered by fate was enough to constrict Harold's throat. How strange to feel an affection for the boy only now, at his lowest point. In spite of himself, as if for a moment he had lost control over his own hands, Harold reached out and touched Chuck gently on the shoulder.

"Not in the slightest," Harold said, noting the surprise that flickered across Chuck's face with the contact. "But it will remind you that no matter what the outcome is, you are Chuck Bass."

Chuck swallowed, his eyes still focused on the point of contact between Harold's hand and his shoulder. "I think we both know that my being Chuck Bass holds less currency than it might once have had."

"Not for me, Chuck," Harold said, releasing his fatherly hand from Chuck's shoulder.

"Oh?" he said, visibly relaxing when Harold's alien display of affection ended. "Why is that?"

"Because you are…cherished by my daughter," Harold said simply.

Such a look of vulnerability crossed Chuck's face that Harold found his heart aching for the boy he had only barely tolerated since he had become Blair's boyfriend.

"Why is that true?" Chuck whispered, pleading for some sort of explanation for this logic-defying love that he had stumbled across.

"I don't know," Harold shrugged. "But it is." With that, Harold turned to leave the room. "Take a moment. The car is outside."

Taking a deep breath, Chuck prepared to leave the safety of Blair's hospital room and face the ravenous crowd who so delighted in his private tragedy. The flash of cameras could already be seen through the door, as Chuck stood silently, his head bowed. Harold was standing just outside, as if he were a body guard, and Chuck knew that Lily sat behind the dark windows of the limo that idled outside the hospital.

It was a strange thing, to walk into a crowd of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Remembering Harold's advice, Chuck lifted his chin, preparing to go through the doors, when suddenly he felt a hand clasp his own.

It was Blair.

He hadn't heard her coming because of the quiet stealth of the wheelchair she sat in, even though judging by her new orthopaedic boot, the consultation had been a success and it would no longer be necessary. For a moment he just looked at her, sitting in the seat that he knew she hated, prepared to be photographed in it, so that people may feel a touch of sympathy for him. She was willing to be known throughout the country as Chuck Bass' girlfriend, even now that his mother's disgrace was made public.

"What are you doing here?"

Blair gave him a look so full of protectiveness and adoration that Chuck felt for a moment he might weep at the sight of it. "I won't let you do this alone."

"This is not what I wanted," he said sharply, although he didn't drop her hand.

Blair had learnt, now, not to cower in the face of his darker tones. She craved the darker side of him: she knew that it was only by getting to know his dark spaces that she might be able to hold him in her hand for a while longer. "I told you I would stand by you through anything."

The ghost of a conversation passed made him smile slightly. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I love you," she whispered.

"I love you, too," he replied, wishing for a fleeting instant that he had responded that way when she had first made that speech, although too scared to hold onto the wish, in case it changed one instant of their time together. "But you realize that you're sitting down, right?"

"Whatever," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm going out there with you

For a moment Chuck considered arguing with her further, telling her not to subject herself to the assault of headlines and cameras. But, he realized that he wanted her there – a fact which she had of course known before it even occurred to him.

"You didn't have to," he said softly.

"Yes," Blair said, kissing his hand. "I did."

Harold had been wrong, Chuck mused as they readied themselves to face the oncoming storm. He had thought that it would take a bearing or a tilt of the chin to remind himself that he was Chuck Bass. It took no more than Blair Waldorf.

*

The meeting crackled with tension, and yet Chuck sat there feeling remarkably numb. He had braved the flash of cameras and the tense ride with Harold and Lily. He had even survived the walk through the doors before which Bart's legacy had been christened.

There was something about the gathering that reminded Chuck of the Roman Empire. Although Dr. Dwight was a modern historian: his doctoral thesis had in fact been about the history of business in the United States, he had a keen appreciation of the ancients. Under Dwight's tutelage – the strange and moving interest that the man had taken in Chuck's pastoral development – Chuck had read tails about the betrayal of fathers and the fall of the mighty.

Surely there was something in ancient times that related to this scene, with his birth father at the head of the table and with a Board of executioners.

It had been unsurprising, really, to learn of Jack's treachery. To hear that while he sat by Blair's bedside, his father had amassed enough shareholder support to amend the constitution of the company to ensure that only one aged over 25 years old would be considered qualified to run the company. It was unsurprising to hear that the notification that Jack had been required to give Chuck had been delivered to his old suite – one that he hadn't lived in for over a year.

Of course the Board had the power to overturn this decision. This had been the intended subject matter of the emergency meeting. Although Harold argued eloquently in his favour, it had been an impossible battle. The argument in favour of experience and education was too sound, too rational for rebuttal. And at this point, after the whispers that had followed Chuck around the room, he was not sure that even loyalty to Bart's wishes could sway the Board.

"I hope that you will view this decision not as a personal affront," a man in a three-piece suit commented. "But rather as a business decision made for the benefit of your fath…of Bart Bass's legacy."

Harold snorted, every inch the corporate lawyer he had once been, rather than the pleasant family-orientated retiree he had become. "It is a reactionary attempt to smooth over bad publicity. And judging by the lengths that have been gone to in order that Chuck be hood-winked out of his inheritance, we are witnessing collusion at the highest levels."

"You are spinning conspiracy theories, Harold," Jack Bass commented smoothly, his eyes on the side of Chuck's head. Chuck hated him for his unwavering look. It was as if he was trying to convey some profound secret directly into Chuck's mind. And so Chuck avoided his eyes. Although he had, in the uneasy ten minutes that had elapsed before the start of the meeting, noticed the way the energy and vibrancy that had always characterised Jack throughout Chuck's childhood had been leeched form the man's very bones.

"And I should think that today of all days, you would find it in you to employ a touch of humility in your tone of address," Harold said smoothly.

"I am as mortified as anyone by the contents of _The Times_ this morning," Jack protested, earning some fairly cool glances.

"Which is why your quote was in the third paragraph," Harold commented.

"We're losing focus," Dave Perkins commented. "This issue should not be about the humiliation that has occurred as a result of Attenborough's slanderous reporting. It is about what is best for the company. And I, personally, believe that – putting aside any personal affection I feel for Charles or animosity I feel for other members of the Board – it is in the best interests of everyone involved if the age of ascent is raised to at least twenty-five."

Perkins cast Chuck an apologetic look. Since the moment that Bart's intention to leave Chuck the company had been made public, Perkins had been his greatest advocate and Jack's greatest adversary. He was a measured, reasonable man. But he was also a shrewd businessman, who was capable of cutting his losses at a moment's notice. Chuck didn't fool himself into thinking that the man's personal affection to him would have any bearing on the outcome of this vote.

Looking around the table, Chuck realized with a start that this driving motivation that had been struck deep within him when he and Blair had been on the verge of disaster and in the light of the emptiness that had followed Bart's demise and his realization that a miserable childhood had been caused by the actions of Jack and Constance before he had been conceived – each of these horrible facts of life had come to mean very little. Because suddenly the room's opinion of him mattered not in the least. Even as he watched their hands rise, or in Lily's case, watched her marble face set in a frown as she abstained form voting, he felt a strange dissociation from the scene.

It was a moment of insight, perhaps. He saw things as if from a great height, making connexions that may not have struck him at ground-level. He understood suddenly that since his association with Bass Industries had begun, it had been driven by one thing: the relationships he had with those around him. While striving for Bart's approval, he had attempted to use this monstrous power in order to affect change. While battling with Bart's ghost, he had taken on the frenzy of a man possessed in attempting to be more like Bart. When Jack's fist had tightened around his own position in the company, he had channelled this hatred for his birth father into a single-minded pursuit of this prize. He had allowed Lily to become a mother to him by using the justification of Bass Industries. He had tried to impress Blair with its power.

There had been a gnawing hole inside of him, and he had attempted to fill it with the ambitions and dreams of a man now long dead. Who in death, had been identified by a boy too old for his years and too unloved and desperate to love anyone.

Bart Bass had died alone, with only this company to live on as a legacy. Lily had taken on the burden of the building, and it had taken on an unnatural form: it had become a symbol of her entrapment and her psyche had collapsed under the weight of it. Jack, Chuck was starting to suspect, hated the place as much as the rest of them. And Chuck was starting to see that somewhere under Jack's discoloured skin and cool eyes, there was a plan of destruction brewing.

"It is so passed," the minute-taker of the meeting commented.

As the tension reached its highest point, Chuck stared at those adults who ruled this empire of Bart's, reaching its highest point of success and prestige. Pride cometh before the fall, Chuck mused. He could have prophesied disaster in this moment, but instead all he felt was a strange loosening.

He was going to loose Bass Industries. Not because he was forced out, but because somewhere along the way in the last year, he had changed in some fundamental way. And he wanted to learn from those mistakes that surrounded him.

"It's done then," Lily said, breaking the silence that had fallen over all of them.

"And there's nothing that can be done about it," Harold noted, reading the resolution, before offering Jack a sarcastic nod. "Well done."

"I hope that you will come to understand this decision," Perkins commented, eyeing Chuck's glazed expression.

Had he been paying closer attention, he may have noticed the tacit look of approval that had passed between Lily and Jack. Maybe then he would have had the insight to request a copy of those confidential documents that would tell him that Lily had in fact known about these covert meetings: had sent a proxy to vote in favour of the amendment. But all he saw was the white of his own knuckles on the table. And all he heard was the steady beat of his pulse in his ears.

All he could think of was how much he would have liked to be sitting on the steps of St Jude's and Constance with Blair's fingers twined with his and with the sounds of his friends laughing around him. He would have liked to meet Eric's eyes from across the courtyard and exchanged a brotherly nod of acknowledgement.

It was a moment of profound shifting, when Chuck could see – positively taste – the vast potential of his life. He could see worlds opening up to him that he had never even considered: full of hope and love and perhaps even the family that had always eluded him.

And then the scene faded. It had been no more than a fleeting sensation, and of course it was impossible that a personality so full of dark spaces could hold onto the glittering image for more than instant. But Chuck knew that when the darkness threatened to consume him, as he knew it must in a future so uncertain, he would try to recapture that moment of peace that had come upon him.

Despite the sense of peace that had come upon him for a moment, Chuck knew that it was a difficult thing, to watch a dream that he had nursed for so many years pass away before his eyes. He knew that a part of him would always want to be that person who Bart Bass might have admired. But, he also knew that it was a time for new directions: a time to discover new parts of himself. And judging by Jack's most recent betrayal and the cold expanse of his childhood, Chuck would have to face the next phase of his life without any particular past, relying only on those attachments and loyalties that he had collected for himself.

It was time to make a break with the past and gamble on a future.

He just wanted the meeting to be over so that he could go back to Blair. He regarded Jack with a cool look. It was ironic to think of the lengths that the man had gone to in order that Chuck be cut out from Bart Bass's company. If the man had taken a few minutes to actually discuss things with Chuck, he might have discovered that Chuck would come to the decision to absent himself on his own terms. He almost felt sorry for Jack. But of course, it was not in Chuck's nature to feel sympathy for those soft and pathetic creatures that came into the world with no protection to speak of.

"Chuck? Is there anything you want to say?" Lily asked gently.

A dark delight spread within Chuck. One day he would become someone driven only by good. But for now, he would make an exit fitting of Chuck Bass.

"Nothing springs to mind," Chuck said breezily, as his colleagues shifted in relief. "Except for the fact that I will be liquidating my shares in Bass Industries."

There was a long silence. "You can_not_ be s-serious," Julian McMahon stuttered.

"He'd be well within his rights to do so," Harold interjected, starting to enjoy himself.

"And I will be doing just that by close of business today," Chuck said, shrugging.

Dave Perkins leaned into him, his face a mask of fear. He was probably imagining the lowering numbers of his own bank account when the market caught whiff of a majority shareholder jumping ship. "Think about what you're doing, son," Perkins said desperately. "You'd be turning your back on Bass Industries forever."

Chuck thought for a moment. If he ever wanted to take the helm as CEO of the company, he would have to enter through the front door and work his way up. Of course, Chuck knew himself well enough to know that he would never sufferance that kind of indignity.

"I will be pursuing my other interests," Chuck said lazily, examining his nails, enjoying the feeling of once more controlling the room.

"Think about the shareholders."

"I think that Jack should have considered the shareholders before leaking my paternity to the press."

"So this is revenge," another old man shouted gleefully, as if that made a difference.

"No," Chuck said evenly. "It's comeuppance. There is a difference."

There was pandemonium. Only Jack sat stock-still with a queer look of anticipation on his face. Chuck had the sneaking suspicion that he was reading directly from a script that Jack had devised. But for some reason, he didn't particularly care.

Soon enough, the Board members had given up and only Perkins, Lily, Chuck, Harold and Jack remained in the room. Sensing that there would be no reasoning with Chuck, Perkins was attempting to exploit his emotions. "I would have liked to think that you had more respect for Bart's legacy than this," the man said sadly.

Chuck looked up sharply. "It's not that I disrespect…Bart's…legacy. It is merely that I hope to create a better legacy for myself."

Perkins shrugged, defeated. "What's better than Bass?"

Walking towards the exit, without even acknowledging Jack, Chuck turned to offer them one final smirk. "I don't know. But I plan on finding out."

With that, Chuck left the room, with Lily in hot pursuit.

"Say what you will about Chuck," Jack commented lightly. "But me makes one hell of an exit."

Harold was packing up his papers, when he cast a serious glance in Jack's direction. "Was it worth it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jack said, spreading his hands wide. They were strangely aristocratic hands, much like Chuck's own.

After a moment, Harold looked back down at his papers. "I feel sorry for you, you know."

"Why is that?"

"Because I'm a father," Harold said simply. "And one day you are going to be very sorry that you've made your son your enemy."

Jack bowed his head. "Some things are more important. And Chuck doesn't need a parent."

"No," Harold agreed. "But one day you might find that you need a son. And when that day comes, there will be no saving you."

Finally alone, Jack thought for a moment, drawing a shuddering breath before falling back upon the chair he had used during the meeting.

This morning, when Jack had hurried down to the newsstand outside his rented apartment, he couldn't help but feel a small thrill at the thought of the world finally knowing the dark secret that had caused his exile. Even though it was painful to know that Chuck would be filled with shame at the thought of being named as his Jack Bass' son. It seemed as if he was like his mother in that way.

How beautiful she had been. And how cruel she was.

Jack had crafted each element of his plan with the utmost precision, poring over the documents that had brought this empire of Bart's to life, searching for loopholes, understanding his enemy, convinced that only when he had dismantled the place would he be able to exorcise his brother's spirit and the taunting ghost of Constance, who had chosen the stability and surety of the Bass empire above the desperate and immoderate love of a younger brother who had never been meant to be the member of a dynasty.

He could sense the malevolence of this place: it seeped into his skin and aged his bones.

He had seen the surprise on Lily's face when she had come to visit him: struck by the way he had aged. She didn't understand how consuming a vendetta could be; she didn't understand the pressing need to insulate Chuck from his machinations.

But, she had stayed true to their agreement.

After the crippling blow of the floating of thirty percent of Bass Industry's shares when Chuck liquidated his assets, it would be time to complete his plan.

He had said it to Lily that the corporation as a form had come about due to the need for a business structure capable of performing all actions that a human can perform. It was possible for a company to commit suicide. And it was possible for a company to murder.

Bart Bass knew all about that, Jack thought, remembering the small tremble that had come over his brother's hands as they poured a glass of scotch. It had been the only sign of vulnerability that Bart had ever shown in front of Jack. The night that he found out about that fire and the death of the man, who had worked there, Bart's hands had trembled slightly.

When Bart had found out about Jack's affair with Constance, he had been perfectly still and contained in his fury. It was only when Bass Industries was involved that Bart had trembled.

He didn't hate his brother, not really, although he had come close to hating Bart the day Constance wrote that letter – ending any hope Jack had had about being a father to Chuck. Jack didn't hate Bart – but he had to admit that a part of him was exhilarated by the thought that somewhere behind the veil that separates life from that which follows, Bart's hand was trembling slightly.

*

It had taken a few days before Chuck truly comprehended the magnitude of his decision with Bass Industries. It was not precisely regret, but rather a strange sense that he had somehow severed his final connexion with Bart Bass that kept his mind strangely heavy and serious. He had fallen into a mood, and he knew that his friends had sensed it. He had even heard Eric and Serena discussing it in the halls of their house.

"It just makes me nervous, seeing Chuck all withdrawn," Serena fretted. "And of course I can't say anything about it…I mean at the best of times Chuck and I have a strange relationship. We made steps in the right direction at the hospital…but I mean…"

"He needs to process," Eric soothed her. "You know Chuck – whenever he feels things deeply, he withdraws. And in the course of a week, the entire world – including both of us – have found out that Bart Bass was not his father, he was exiled by the Board, he is being blamed for the drop in Bass share prices, and he can barely walk down a hallway at school without been sniggered at. And this was the week _after_ the month that the love of his life spent somewhere between alive and dead."

"I know, I know," Serena said. "I just hope he doesn't…you know…crack under the pressure."

"What do you mean?" Chuck was gratified to hear Eric's voice take on a coolness at the implicit rebuke in Serena's voice. He felt the now familiar swoop of affection for his strange little brother with his too-wise eyes. As always seemed to happen when he thought about Eric, a strange protectiveness rustled within him: he had been wrong on the day of the Board meeting. There were some small, vulnerable creatures that he not only cared for, but would die to protect. And Eric, who entered the world so unprotected, was a cause of constant worry for him.

"Nothing…I mean…it's just that…every other time things have gotten to be too much for him, he's run away."

Eric was too kind to make the comment that Chuck or Blair might have about Serena's own propensity to run for the hills. "He won't do it this time."

"How do you know that?"

"He's grown roots," Eric shrugged. "He's got Blair, and us – and Nate, Dan, and Vanessa. He's got a reason to stay now. He's got ties that bind."

"I know he does. He's just never liked being tied up before."

Chuck smirked to himself at that, knowing without needing to see Eric's face that his adoptive brother would be offering Serena an identical smirk. "Well…he likes being tied up recreationally."

"Ugh," Serena groaned. "At least if he runs away you might stop channelling him."

Chuck puzzled over their words for a while, trying to consider whether that old need to be free and to walk with nothing but the night air pressing down upon him was still lying dormant. But each morning, when Blair's mouth would nuzzle into the crook of his neck and he would curl his toes over the plastic frame of her "moonboot" (as Eric had taken to calling the boot) he felt the strange elation that came with a very welcome weight pressing upon him.

He would still fret over those newscasts that showed lines of people condemning him for selling his managing stake in Bass Industries. The falling stock prices felt as if they were rebukes for him personally, although he knew that this initial shock should even out. People would flock towards the investment, and soon enough it would be as if that small sliver of power Chuck had possessed had never existed to begin with.

"I wanted a clean start," Chuck whispered into the night, as Blair lay next to him, now in her own bed at home.

"And that came with consequences," Blair said, her nose almost touching his. "So now you have to make sure that what you do with your freedom is worth it. The stock prices will rally, though. Don't worry about that."

And so they had. Chuck was unable to shake the sense of foreboding – that he was involved in some strange and invisible plot. He found himself retreating into himself at school, and even he had been struck dumb by the number on the screen of his bank account after he gave up his managing share of Bart's vast empire. He had retained only a sliver of an interest in the company, invested in Bass Asia-Pacific; he had reviewed the data and was convinced that this far-flung corner of the Bass Industries machine would soon outstrip the sclerotic movement of the US market.

There was one purchase that he had been certain to make. It was extravagant in some ways, but Chuck noted that it barely dented his vast resources. Besides, it was a gift for Blair and therefore by definition worth it. Although he had the sneaking suspicion that she might literally rip his head off.

Blair hadn't spoken to him about the one issue that they had never truly resolved: their plans for after school. She was giving him space, he supposed. Or perhaps she also harboured a hidden fear that he would soon run far from her: perhaps all of those people he cherished in his life harboured that fear. It was a constant frustration: this sense that no matter how much progress one made, people would always be quick to find those hidden fissures. Although it was possible that they were right: that there was something within him that craved to be unattached.

And yet a part of him knew that of all of them, only Blair had the unwavering faith in him that so often eluded Chuck himself. That very morning, she had left a book open and underlined for him, highlighting a famous quote from Anatole France. All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another. As he read, her arms snaked around his chest, until her hand came to rest over his heart. "Trying to tell me something Blair?" he asked wryly. "Trying to make you give yourself permission to experience the loss," she whispered. "All of it. Even the ones that bring relief on their wings."

It was a lucky thing that Eleanor had completely given up on keeping Chuck out of her house; he was not sure that he could have withstood the media attention and the disdain of those peers who had once feared him without Blair constantly at his side. Because of her near-healed leg, they had yet to resume the sexual side of their relationship, although both of them were thoroughly frustrated. It was enough, for the moment, to be near her.

"It's no big deal. I just don't want to go."

Chuck had been standing in Blair's room, reading once more the passage she had underlined for him, when her voice had travelled up the stairs and into his ears. Harold, Eleanor, Cyrus and Roman were all downstairs, and Chuck had been trying to give them some privacy. Hearing the defensive and petulant tone of Blair's voice, and smiling fondly at the sound of it, Chuck hurried down the staircase.

She was, as he had predicted, standing before all of her parental figures with her arms crossed.

"But Blair-bear," Harold protested. "You have been dreaming about it for so long."

"Well this is reality. And the reality is that I'm not going."

Chuck came up behind her without her noticing, wrapping his arms around her waist in a way that he might not have dared in front of her parents only weeks ago. "Where are we boycotting? Just so I don't accidentally walk in without realizing?"

"Prom," Blair said flatly. "Tomorrow."

He pulled back slightly, exchanging a confused look with her parents. "Prom? The same prom you have been fantasizing about since we met?"

"Why does everyone keep _saying_ that?" Blair said, exhaling through her teeth and pushing Chuck off of her.

"Because it's true," Chuck shrugged. "What's changed?"

Blair shot him an incredulous look. "Are you kidding?"

"I'm not that dry."

Blair looked around at her parents for support, but they were all staring at her quizzically. Turning back to Chuck she gestured helplessly. "Look at us, Chuck. This is not how I envisaged my senior prom. With me all battered and wearing a hideous boot thing - "

"We'll get you a long dress," he interrupted smoothly, taking a step towards her.

" – and with the student body gossiping about you."

Chuck cocked his head to the side. "So you don't want to go to prom because you're worried about what people will think?"

"Don't act like it's nothing," Blair said, frowning at him. "It's just not how I pictured it."

"How did you picture it?" Chuck said, staring deeply into her eyes, and feeling a smug sense of satisfaction when she blushed.

She rolled her eyes. "Well for one, I imagined _dancing_."

"And kids don't dance anymore?" Cyrus asked, confused.

"_I _can't dance," Blair said, her eyes lowering to the floor.

Roman clapped his hands enthusiastically. "Well this we can test immediately, no? Cyrus do you have some music?"

"What for?" Blair grumbled as Cyrus rushed over to the record player.

After a moment's searching, Cyrus pulled an old record from Eleanor's collection. There was a strange crackling noise, as the turntable adjusted and those present waited for the music to drift from the gramophone. It was almost eerie, with the low light of the afternoon and the silent and expectant faces of their pale cohort.

It was not a song that Chuck was familiar with, although he heard Roman lean into Harold's ear and whisper, "Avec le Temps by Leo Ferre". [2] As he stared at Blair, wearing a black and white dress and her silly boot, he felt so full of love that he feared that he might yell or weep just to exorcise it from his system. Without uttering a word, he held his hand out for her. The intensity of his emotions must have been obvious in his eyes, because she didn't complain. Rather, she allowed herself to melt into his arms. Mindless of her mother and father and the step-parents who formed the warm cocoon of family that Blair was so lucky to be surrounded by and so generous to share with Chuck, he pulled her close to him, leading her with only a touch of awkwardness as she negotiated dancing in her boot.

There may have been four other people in the room, but for a moment, there was nothing but the dark passion that never ebbed between the two damaged people who danced so effortlessly.

"You're a good dancer," Blair murmured. "I've always thought that about you."

"Even when you were imagining going to this prom with Nate?" Chuck asked quietly, so no prying ears could hear. She was almost angry at him, even with his warm hands holding her at the base of her spine. He had such a gift for cutting to the unpleasant crux of the issue. It was so typical of him to drudge up some fictitious jealousy about Nate – especially now when it was such a ludicrous possibility that she might well have poked anyone in the eye who suggested that she still harboured feelings for Nate. Not, this was Chuck prodding around the issue, trying to pull out any number of unpleasant truths in order to get to the real problem. And so she decided to continue their usual dance of deflection and implication.

"It's such an unimaginative fantasy really – a night of make-believe. It's quite fitting for my relationship with Nate."

He settled those dark eyes of his on her face. "Then I must be unimaginative. Because I imagined it with you."

"_You_ imagined prom," Blair said incredulously.

"I imagined you," he corrected.

For one insane moment, Blair considered ripping his clothes off and doing him on the floor, with her parents watching and her awkward orthopaedic boot.

"It's just unbelievable," Blair said, shaking her head at him. "To think how all this time, from the beginning of it all, you were the one I was meant to be with."

She felt him stiffen slightly, and cursed herself for saying the wrong thing. He was so unpredictable, so impossible to control or direct that sometimes she wished that she had never climbed into that limo that had driven her along a collision course into Chuck. She sometimes wished that she hadn't followed him on the night of Bart's funeral, hadn't allowed him back into her house and heart, hadn't sent him away, hadn't rubbed his calf with her stockinged foot.

She remembered it all so clearly, every significant event that formed the fabric of their relationship, and every miniscule gesture that formed its substance. She loved him with such abandon, such terrifying passion, that she sometimes imagined it was possible to unpick the entire thing: to go back to a simpler time when she hadn't had the slightest clue what love was.

Because if none of it had happened, then she wouldn't be standing here now, trembling beneath his hands and terrified that he might pusher her away – terrified that at any moment their perfectly reciprocal love might careen more pronouncedly in her direction, and that he might run away, terrified.

As if her thoughts had given him the idea, he stepped away from her, avoiding her parent's eyes. "Blair," he said, in a tight voice. "Can I talk to you for a moment? Alone?"

Four pairs of eyes exchanged nervous looks.

"I have to go check on something in the kitchen," Cyrus said suddenly. "Roman, perhaps you would like to join me?"

"Ah, yes," Harold agreed. "I too must go check the kitchen - "

"The oven," Roman stage-whispered.

"- The oven," Harold amended. "Come along Eleanor."

For her part, Eleanor was staring at Blair and Chuck with a wrapt expression on her face. It took Harold taking hold of her arm and positively dragging her out of the room for Eleanor to break her stare. "He's not going to do something completely batty like _propose_ is he?" she hissed as they hurried from the room. Chuck had certainly grown on her, but by any standards eighteen was far too young to marry.

Blair barely noticed her various parents excusing themselves from the room. "Chuck," she whispered nervously, clutching her stomach for no other reason than she didn't quite know what to do with her hands. "What's wrong?"

He was staring at his own feet. "Blair," Chuck said quietly. "Will you take a look at something for me?"

She wasn't quite sure what to expect when she nodded mutely. Without any further elaboration, he threw something at her. Thinking it was some kind of knotted shoelace or a cracked cufflink, Blair took a moment to register what she held in her hand. It was a set of keys.

"Chuck," she said uncertainly, frowning down at the keys. "What are these?"

He took a deep breath. "They're a gift."

"You got me a car?" she joked, aware that someone as urban as Chuck would never make the mistake of buying a New Yorker a car.

He looked so nervous that she wanted to rush over to him. But, he seemed determined to explain his surprising gift without the distraction of her body pressed against his. "Mrs. Wincester died."

She searched her recollection. "Mrs. Wincester…who owns that amazing house in the Hamptons?"

He nodded. A strange buzzing filled Blair's head as she stared at the keys in her hand. "Chuck…you didn't…I mean – did you _buy_ Barbiston?"

He swallowed, feeling suddenly foolish. "I brought it. For you. As a present. Just to say…you know…thanks."

_Very smooth,_ he thought to himself, sarcastically. _Very not pathetic_. [3]

"I can't accept this," Blair said softly. "It's too much." It was an unbearably kind voice, as if she were talking to someone very young or very stupid.

"No, it isn't," Chuck replied, flushed and frustrated by her response. "It isn't even close to enough. You're the only…I mean. You're just…the only reason that I can't think of to stay here, when everything looks like it's falling apart. And I just didn't know…"

"Didn't know what?" she whispered, scarcely able to speak.

He spread his hands wide, as if trying to encompass his emotions at this moment. Searching for a word for how he felt, he took a few steps towards her. Reaching out a single hand and placing it on her cheek, he shook his head in bewilderment, as if he couldn't believe that she was real and his and standing before him all at once. "How to thank you for being in my life."

Blair could think of no way to respond adequately to that kind statement; she couldn't conceive of herself in the way that Chuck seemed to. She couldn't understand how it had come about that two such insubstantial people and produced something so substantial between each other.

"It's so much Chuck,"

He noted the wavering tone of her voice, the way the gift had become "so much" rather than "too much" and knew that he had won. Strolling towards her, reaching out to trace the delicate bird-like bones of her collarbone, he smirked. "Real estate is the only thing that lasts forever. That's what Bart always said."

Blair's eyes flickered closed under his fingers. "Which is why I think you should keep it," she said gently, without opening her eyes.

"What?" he asked suddenly, knowing that he sounded all of twelve years old.

"You should keep it. It should be yours. And I'll…I don't know. Visit it. And maybe in the future - " It was somehow fitting that the arm of the record player should lift from the surface of the record, leaving them in a ringing silence, staring at each other.

It was the fact that she used his own words against her that filled him with a black and disproportionate rage. He had known that she would object to his lavish gift, and he had been planning to slowly acclimatise her to the reality of it – by taking her there on a holiday, telling her that he'd brought it, before letting her know that everything was in her name. But something about the moment – the peaceful reprieve in the course of a hellish week – and her words that had sounded so permanent, so certain, that had provoked him to pull out the keys he had been carrying around with him.

"You're going to _visit_ the house I brought you," he said incredulously. "You have _got _to be kidding me."

"It's a _house_ Chuck," she cried, feeling a strange desire to laugh at the absurdity of the conversation. "If you wanted to get me a graduation gift, why didn't you just get me a briefcase?"

"Fine," he hissed. "I'll bear that in mind for next time."

She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes, taking the measure of him, and by the looks of things, taking exception to his tone. "Do you want to tell me what this is about?"

"I _told _you," he spat. "It was a fucking gift. Because I thought you might like it. Looks like I was wrong."

"I love that house," Blair said simply. "But I don't think that is what this is really about."

"Well you tell me, Blair. What is it about?"

She couldn't be sure how the conversation had taken this turn, but she knew that she was right. How could he possibly imagine that she would accept a gift so staggeringly expensive? How could he possibly imagine that she would ever be able to match a gift so extravagant that it defied belief?

"I think that everything is up in the air for you right now," she said gently. "And I think you want certainty. So you're giving me this house because it makes you think that we'll be certain. You're buying certainty. But I'm telling you Chuck, we _are _certain."

"If you were certain about me, you'd take the house," he said obstinately.

"I'm sorry," she said, her lips a thin line. "I just can't accept it."

"Fine," he said, nostrils flaring and cheeks surprisingly pink. "Then I'll just get out of your hair."

"Where are you going?" she all but whimpered, hating the neediness in her voice.

"Well I have a fucking house to sell don't I?" he growled, before sweeping out of her apartment.

*

[1] Best line from "Re: Stacks" by Bon Iver.

[2] Special thanks to **LaMargaux** for sending me this music. And thank you for the lovely message you sent me. I think this scene is enhanced by listening to the song as it progresses.

[3] I am not entirely sure – but isn't this a _Buffy _quote? I feel that Xander once said it…


	22. Chapter 22: Poetry of Departures Part II

**Chapter Twenty-Two:**** Poetry of Departures – PART TWO**

…_So to hear it said_

_He walked out on the whole crowd_

_Leaves me flushed and stirred,_

_Like _Then she undid her dress

_Or _Take that you bastard;

_Surely I can, if he did?_

_And that helps me to stay _

_Sober and industrious._

_But I'd go today,_

_Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,_

_Crouch in the fo'c'sle_

_Stubbly with goodness, if_

_It weren't so artificial,_

_Such a deliberate step backwards_

_To create an object:_

_Books; china; a life_

_Reprehensibly perfect_

Philip Larkin, "Poetry of Departures"

*

Sleuthing was hard work, Dan had decided after three days of intense focus and coffee over-doses.

Since he had wandered down to the local newsstand and purchased a copy of _The New York Times_, he had been torn in several directions. A part of him – the small ambitious part of him that he didn't like to acknowledge – imagined what it would be like to write something like this, the sort of article that fundamentally changes the landscape of a city. But mostly, Dan had been setting himself the task of uncovering why it was that Noah Shapiro had called him in order to gauge his interest in picking up the investigation of Bass Inc. where he had left off.

He had seen many films with investigators pursuing leads and it seemed that the one common thread was an extensive use of whiteboards and pieces of string joining pieces of paper. He had made a valiant attempt to mirror this tendency, but even he had to admit that his pin-board left a little to be desired, consisting only of Noah Shapiro's business card and a carefully cut out copy of the article about Chuck's parentage. Other than that, all Dan had to go on was the sense that someone like him – someone close to Chuck Bass – would be asked to write the article that would expose Bart Bass' shady dealings and the death that had been reported to Dan by the anonymous tip he had received. It had been no more than Dan's sincere affection for the Van Der Woodsens that had prevented him from writing the piece – but after he made that decision it had seemed as if that informant had disappeared into the ether. It had not occurred to him until this moment that perhaps someone had planted the informant.

Needing to enjoy a moment of dramatics, he pulled out a red pen and circled Jack Bass' name before his quote. _While I am mortified by the contents of my private life being made public, I admit that there is a degree of relief in exposure, and in being able to name Chuck Bass as my son…although it saddens my heart that to claim this pride, I must bring shame to my late brother, Bart Bass, whose visionary thinking has had its mark upon the very skyline of this city…_

With that, he wandered out of his bedroom, his eyes burning and his head muddled.

"It's ridiculous," Rufus commented, his hip against the bench, spooning yoghurt into his mouth as he read what was quite obviously yet another old copy of _The New York Times_. They said that the newspapers of today lined the litter boxes of tomorrow, but Dan had found the edition exposing Chuck's paternity had been remarkably durable. "Jack Bass stands before the populous, running ash through his hair, when anyone can see that he leaked the story."

"Why would he do it?" Dan asked, shaking his hair. "I mean, Chuck will never forgive him for this."

"Never is a strong word," Rufus mused.

"A strong and accurate word," Dan countered. "Seriously. When Chuck was a freshman, some senior told him that he looked like a ventriloquist's dummy in one of his suits – and I swear to god that Chuck has sent him hate mail every day since then. I wouldn't be surprised if in ten years time the guy woke up with his credit cards cancelled and a bow-tie wearing horse head in his bed."

Rufus blinked. "So he's got a talent for grudge holding?"

Dan stared moodily at the article. "The only person better at holding grudges is Blair Waldorf. And I have the feeling that she's not going to be sending Jack a candygram anytime soon."

"It's strange," Rufus said thoughtfully. "To think that all this time, all those hours that Chuck spent trying to please his father…I mean Bart. To think all of that was hopeless."

Dan felt a strange swoop of sympathy for Chuck. "Bart Bass must have been a steel vault of secrecy."

"Steel is right. I don't understand that type of coldness. There's something inhuman about it."

No, Dan thought contemplatively. His father would never understand that type of coldness, and as a result, he would never be a man of greatness. For the first time, Dan felt a peculiar sense of relief that Rufus had been destined to be a father. In that role, Dan had yet to find a father to match him. There had been moments during Dan's adolescence when he had viewed with disdain this almost feminine instinct for family in his father. It would be nothing more than Rufus in the kitchen making waffles, or Rufus helping Jenny put together a diorama. For a moment, Dan would be filled with a frustrated resentment. Why could Rufus not be more like those high-achieving fathers of his peers? Why could he not be a man who terrified instead of a man who nurtured?

Now, though. Now that graduation was upon them and the vicissitudes of St Jude's were soon to be a distant memory, Dan felt as if he could get down on his knees in order to thank the universe for giving him Rufus Humphrey as a father. Thinking about the lengths Chuck had gone to in order to run away from Bart's legacy or to hold it in his hands, Dan was filled with relief that all he ever had to do to make his father proud was to wake up in the morning.[1]

"Not everyone is lucky enough to have you for a dad," Dan said, filled with affection.

It took no more than a kind word to make Rufus give him a wide smile. "Thanks, Dan. How is Chuck doing?"

"Okay, I think," Dan said contemplatively. "I mean - he's holding it together at least."

It was around that moment when the loft door slid open and a stinkingly drunk Chuck Bass stumbled into the Humphrey living room.

"Or, you know…he's not," Dan said as Chuck leaned heavily on the door.

"I am sorry for coming over unannounced," Chuck said in a strangely formal, if drunken, voice, running his finger over the wood of the door. "But I seek refuge in your humble walls." He slid to the floor as if he had simply forgotten how to stand.

Dan and Rufus exchanged a glance before walking over to Chuck's prone form and lifting him to his feet, half-carrying, half-dragging his body to the couch.

"Did you maybe have a drink or two before coming over?" Rufus asked, almost smiling when Chuck tried and failed to cross his legs, allowing them to point straight out in the direction of two corners of the room.

"I'm fairly sure I've drunk all the alcohol in the city at this point," Chuck said, his eyes drooping closed.

"Do you want to tell us what's wrong?" Rufus asked, gently.

"I'm sorry," Chuck said, his eyes still mostly closed. "You must have me confused with someone who has ovaries."

Dan wished that there was some way to get Rufus alone, to tell him that gentleness didn't help in these situations with Chuck. Any tiny demonstration of kindness was too easily construed as an affront: it represented that the other party felt sorry for him. And he could never countenance it. Dan supposed that if the whole college thing didn't work out he could make a rather tidy living as Chuck's personal shrink.

Leaning away from the boy, all but examining his nails in disinterest, Dan adopted the cool and steady tone that he had learnt from Chuck. "When really you're just a pussy who needs to get completely wasted before coming over and having a cry on my couch."

Rufus gave Dan a look as if he had grown an extra head, but right on cue, Chuck's eyes opened and narrowed at Dan's tone. "Did you just call me a pussy?"

"If it talks like a pussy, walks like a pussy," Dan shrugged.

It never would have worked if Chuck was sober, but it seemed that whatever was bothering him was had irked him so deeply that he had felt the need to completely obliterate any rational thought from his mind. It was strange how easily Chuck caved; it took only a few minutes of narrowed eyes and mutinous expressions, before his shoulders sagged and he massaged his brow in his hands. Deciding that Dan was not going to be purchasing a front row pass to his misery parade, he turned to look at Rufus.

"You've had some luck with women, haven't you, Older Humphrey?"

Rufus thought that was an overstatement, given his current status as a spinster, but he decided not to contradict the boy. "I suppose."

"Then riddle me this," Chuck said without any affectation or outward sign of emotion. "How do you stop yourself from losing someone?"

"Who do you think you're losing, Chuck?" Rufus asked.

"Well let's go through the list," Chuck said, lifting his hand before his eyes, holding up his fingers. "The man I thought was my father – gone. The man who unfortunately _is_ my father – gone. My company – gone. My mother – gone and got herself knocked up by my uncle…I mean I thought he was my uncle." Chuck frowned, clearly trying to focus. "But all of that doesn't matter. There's only one thing…one person I don't want to lose. Not ever."

"Blair?" Rufus guessed.

Dan was surprised to see that Rufus knew exactly who Chuck was talking about, being unaware of the night of drinking that Rufus and Chuck had enjoyed before Blair's accident. Chuck merely nodded to himself, as if the word Blair had emanated from his head and not from another person.

"What happened with Blair?" Rufus asked.

"I brought her a house," Chuck said with a shrug. "And she told me to shove it."

"You brought her a _house_?" Dan asked incredulously, ignoring frown that Rufus gave him.

"It's in the Hamptons," Chuck said, sensing Dan's disapproval. "It's not like I brought her a hotel in the city. Maybe I should have brought her a hotel in the city. Do you think that would help? I can call my broker."

"Okay," Dan said gently, grabbing his Blackberry before he could lease off the island of Manhattan. "I'm going to say something – and I want you to promise not to take it the wrong way and go all…Chuck Bass…on me."

"Done, Humpty," Chuck slurred, tapping Dan reassuringly on the nose as Rufus looked away in amusement.

Dan paused to collect his thoughts before taking a deep breath. "Have you fallen down and hit your head? You know…hard?"

Chuck frowned, trying to recall. "I don't think so."

"Then what could have possessed you to do something so unbelievably stupid as buying Blair a house?"

All vestiges of relaxation fled from Chuck's body and he sat up stock-still. Even completely wasted, he sensed criticism when it was upon him. "Why does everyone think this is such a big deal? I can afford it."

"Just because you _can_ do something doesn't mean that you should," Dan protested. "I mean you _can_ dress up as Willy Wonka and dance down the hallway on your first day of college, but that doesn't mean you won't get an ass-whooping."

"What a spot-on analogy, Humphrey," Chuck said sarcastically. "I'm drunk, not an imbecile."

Rufus raised his hands, taking on the role of peacemaker. "How about you tell us about this house? Why did you buy it?"

A dreamy expression came over Chuck's face. "I can see it so clearly, you know? The way Blair looked at the house whenever we were in the Hamptons over summer. It was as if someone had just reached into her head and plucked out something so perfect that she couldn't find fault with it. I used to joke that I'd buy it for her and Nate as an engagement gift."

"It sounds like something pretty special," Rufus said soothingly, not wanting to interrupt this rare show of candour. "A beautiful gift."

Chuck seemed to have forgotten that they were there, his mind full to the brim of images of Blair and the way their conversation _should_ have gone. "I wanted her to have a place that was as perfect…"

"As perfect as what?"

He awoke from his reverie, shooting both Dan and Rufus the sharpest look he could muster. Looking at them as if daring them to laugh at him, he searched their faces for some indication that they could be trusted with something as personal as what he was about to tell them. Something in their faces must have reassured him that they could indeed be trusted.

"Something as perfect as she is to me," he said, finally.

Rufus looked at the boy appraisingly, suddenly understanding what this was about. It was undoubtedly a product of his upbringing, this sense that he had of his own lack. He could not conceive of how someone so perfect could be a place of safe haven for him, and so he had done what Bart Bass always had. He had brought her something.

To some extent, Chuck had been woefully unprepared for the world. He was almost childlike in his simplicity and his ignorance about love. He did not understand why Blair would recoil from this gesture. He did not understand that Blair was telling him that he was enough, that there was no need to trap her in him debt forever.

"Did you ask her why she couldn't accept the house?" Rufus asked.

"Please," Chuck snorted. "I have some dignity. After she told me where to go I pretty much left the scene of the crime."

"Very dignified," Dan said sarcastically.

"What did she say?" Rufus asked, ignoring Dan.

Chuck sighed. "She said that she couldn't accept the gift. She said that it was too much. She said I should keep it for myself…and that she could visit it or some crap. Then she said that maybe in the future…something…"

"And why do you think she said that?"

"Because she's a satanic bitch sent from Hades to torture me?" Chuck suggested idly.

"Good answer," Dan observed with a grin.

Rufus had adopted a fully-formed psychiatrist pose, leaning forward with one hand under his chin. All he needed was pieces of cardboard with ink splotches on them. "Do you think maybe there was another reason?"

Chuck exhaled through his teeth as if thinking about Blair's perspective was hard work. "I don't know. I mean, I suppose she didn't want to accept a gift like that – something she could never really match. I don't expect her to. I mean, how am I meant to match her? You know what I mean?" Chuck bit his lip, still struggling for the words. "But I don't know what's wrong with her. Just the other day she was in tears thinking about us growing apart after graduation. And this…this would have fixed that."

"How would it have fixed that?"

Dan had never seen Chuck look so young and so vulnerable before. "Because, that house would always join us, you know? I mean…how can you walk away from someone who gives you your dream house? She wouldn't. Not ever."

"You wanted to find a way to keep her," Dan said slowly. "So you thought you'd give her the house she'd always dreamed of so that she _had_ to live the dream with you."

Chuck opened his mouth to protest, but after a moment, the fight seemed to drain from him. "I was doing to her exactly what I'd always feared a woman would do to me. I was trapping her." He shook his head. "Irony just feels like being raped in prison, doesn't it?"

Dan snorted at that, leaning forward and almost touching Chuck on the shoulder before thinking better of it. In the morning, after he passed out on this couch, Dan knew that Chuck would be twice as cold as usual. He would need to regain some of the equilibrium that had eluded him in his drunken state. But for the moment, there was the tiniest chink in his armour. Dan let his hand fall back into his lap, but he didn't try to mask the emphatic look on his face and the affection in his voice.

"When are you going to accept it, Chuck?" Dan said softly. "You're enough for Blair. She's not tricking you – it's not a joke. She just wants you."

Chuck's jaw twitched. "She really is idiotic, isn't she?"

"Definitely," Dan grinned.

Chuck's eyes were starting to close once more as exhaustion and alcohol abuse overcame his desire to talk things out with the family who he had always secretly envied, despite their humble lifestyle. He let his eyes close and watched the lights that always seemed to explode behind his eyelids. "You know, I was thinking about my mother today," he said contemplatively, as Dan left the room to find a blanket for him to use on the couch.

"What were you thinking about her?" Rufus asked gently, in a voice he hadn't used since Dan and Jenny were infants he'd had to read to in order for them to fall asleep.

"How much the thought of being pregnant with me must have terrified her. How she had to walk around in Bart's house – like some captive bird – and know that if he ever found out about Jack her life would simply be over."

"Well then," Rufus said, pulling a blanket over Chuck's now horizontal form. "At least that's something you have on Bart?"

"Hmm?"

"Blair is sticking around because she wants to. Not because she's forced to out of obligation or practicality. She's with you because she wants to be."

Rufus knew that Chuck had fallen asleep, but he couldn't help but watch the boy sleep for a few minutes. Becoming a father had been exhilarating in so many ways, but perhaps the most striking aspect had been the way that he could be so fascinated by a sleeping infant. He would sit there, listening to the night noises, letting Dan or Jenny lie in the crook of his arm as he mused about the peacefulness of it all. Such extreme stillness, countered by the sound of the wind outside. He would wish to be able to protect always these innocent little creatures that he had somehow had a hand in creating.[2]

He watched Chuck sleep, even though it had been a long time since Chuck had been a baby. It had been many years since the skin of his face had the sort of marvellous pale texture most men shave off when they rip the first razor blade through their stubble and the second upper dermis goes with it forever.[3] Rufus had taught Dan how to shave himself, enjoying the quiet and practical form of male bonding. A part of him had been devastated when Dan was old enough to put a razor to his skin.

Chuck had undoubtedly had to teach himself how to shave. He must have stood in a white bathroom at fourteen, passing over completely the coming-of-age moment that it should have been. He had probably done it too quickly – maybe he had nicked his own skin and not been sure how stop the bleeding. Certainly there would be no doting father standing next to him with a look of pride and sadness in his eyes.

Rufus sighed to himself, feeling once more the sense of pity and regret for Chuck's childhood. There had been the first of what would undoubtedly be many testimonials in the _Times _today, offering accounts of Bart Bass' neglect of Chuck, describing the pampered emptiness of the boy's early years.

And the poor kid had brought his girlfriend a house. A house that she hadn't accepted. For the first time, Rufus found himself reconsidering his assessment of Blair Waldorf. He was amazed that someone as socially manipulative and conniving as Blair had possessed the sensitivity to reject the very thing that social climbing girls in her position may have been craving. He vaguely remembered Jenny describing Blair's determination to sequester her old boyfriend's family ring: and this at sixteen years old!

But, with Chuck, she seemed to have changed. She would not accept her future as a gift, it seemed. She would craft it with Chuck or she would have nothing at all. And maybe in the process, she might force him to say in words that which he felt he could only say in lavish gifts.

Was it possible that the pair of self-centred and damaged children had stumbled upon something so rare that it had eluded Rufus himself for so many years? The hopefulness and the horribleness of that thought kept him awake into the early hours of the morning, while his son next door and no one's son slept on the couch.

*

"Have you spoken to Charles today?" Eleanor asked softly, kneeling at Blair's feet and pinning the hem of her prom dress.

"No," Blair said flatly.

Eleanor cocked her head to the side, taking comfort in the process of fitting. It was reassuring to have her hands occupied. She knew that Blair was in a state, and that any misspoken word would provoke her.

It seemed as if since she had become a mother, she had lived every moment in fear. The first fears are the most acute and simple: the fear that night will come and that it will take with it the life of the baby who seems too vulnerable for dark places. That fear can only be eased by sleepless nights with a hand on the chest, reassured by the gentle in-out of the infant's breath. But as the years pass, the fear of the night stays; because it is impossible to keep a child always with you, a mother has to learn how to let that child walk outside and among the people who may at any moment destroy her- the universe that had been created by two people, with just a hint of the miraculous.

Now, though. Now that the defences had been laid and the character at least partially formed, there was a new fear. A fear of other people, a fear for the future, and in Blair's case: a fear and hope that perhaps Blair had found her exact complement, her perfect match, at an age so long before she was truly ready for it. This morning, she had walked into Blair's bedroom to find Blair poring over several printed out timetables: highlighting and measuring the fastest route between Yale and Princeton in any given contingency.

For one insane, flickering moment, Eleanor had been tempted to tell Blair to forget about college – to follow Chuck, to do whatever it took to keep him by her side. It was a fleeting, sickening thing. To see how the woman in her would tell Blair to let her future go for a boy. It would have been exactly what Eleanor would have done at Blair's age, but if time and marriage (twice) had taught her anything, it was that nothing was certain, that human relationships could change at a second's notice. She had raised Blair to understand the social dynamics of any situation, to hold them in her palm for her own power, but she had also taught her that the only things that last forever are carried around inside of each of us.

And so she had found herself flushed and stirred, wondering what she could say to her daughter.

Before the entire mess in the hospital, she might have told Blair that it was part of the process of growing up: that being separated from a high school boyfriend was a reality that shouldn't cause her pain. It should be viewed as a moment of liberation. A time to figure out who it was you wanted to be.

But now, Eleanor didn't quite know what to say to her. She knew that most of the night had been spent tearfully, with Blair filled with remorse for hurting Chuck and yet convinced that she had made the right decision. They had each taken a turn at comforting her – Harold had assured her that she had made a very mature decision, Cyrus had told her to view it as an indication of Chuck's love, and Roman had offered to buy her something pretty. When it had come for Eleanor's turn, she had brought in a cup of tea, perching at the edge of Blair's bed.

"You could have accepted the damn house," Eleanor commented wryly. "That's what I would have done."

Blair lifted her tear-streaked face. "That is possibly the worst attempt at making me feel better I've ever come across."

Eleanor shrugged. "It's a really nice house."

They had exchanged a look before bursting out laughing. Eleanor didn't like to admit it, but the fact that it had been she who had forced Blair from her mood warmed her heart. So when morning came, and she found Blair struggling to find the fastest route to Chuck when college started, she had glanced down at the timetables and suggested that they look into buying a car for Blair's use during semester.

"Or maybe Charles could charter a helicopter," Eleanor commented.

"I'd settle for him taking me to prom," Blair sighed.

"You're going to prom?"

"He may be a big stubborn ass," Blair commented fondly. "But he was right about that. I'm not going to let anyone ruin tonight for me. Even if I have to go alone."

"Well then," Eleanor said lightly. "Looks like we will have to find you a dress."

And so she had, calling in favours with her designer colleagues. They had settled on a stunning, floor-length gown. It was a deep purple colour: a fitting tribute to the years Blair had passed as the so-called "Queen B". Eleanor understood her choice; it was to be a statement of defiance.

"I don't want anyone to think we're hiding," Blair said softly, regarding herself in the mirror. "Even if Chuck is too hurt and angry to come with me. I don't want anyone to think that we care a jot about their opinions of us."

Eleanor was so filled with pride that she felt as if she might weep at the sight of her daughter, looking so powerful and adult. She had been fearful that Blair's relationship with Chuck would eclipse Blair, would make her something that she was not.

She had come upon them recently, enjoying a moment alone and away from Blair's combined parental army. Chuck had taken to lurking in the library, which had been Harold's favourite room in the house. This strange, bookish side to Chuck was a revelation to Harold, who loved reading so passionately, who craved after hidden worlds and the beauty of a scene that would come unravelled in reality. More than once, Eleanor had found them in companionable silence, ignoring each other completely, each lost in a novel or tome of some kind of importance. When Eleanor had asked Blair about Chuck's newfound interest in reading and learning, Blair been eager to theorize, pleased to be given an invitation to talk about her favourite topic.

"Chuck's always been drawn to fantasy," she explained, her cheeks flushed and eyes shining with affection. "It's in everything he does, it's his entire bearing, so old-fashioned and beautiful. And I mean, I've always known he had a brain – you can tell, can't you? – it just took him longer to discover it. There's this teacher at school, Dr. Dwight, who saw all this potential in him – took Chuck under his wing." She finished in a rush. "And I know he knows how much I love books."

She clearly hadn't wanted to claim too much credit for this newly discovered passion, but Eleanor had a suspicion that Blair had played a greater role in his interest than she gave herself credit for.

Eleanor found them in the library, and being curious to see how they interacted with each other far from the gaze of the outside world, Eleanor had hidden herself in the shadow of the hallway, watching as Chuck leaned casually against the shelves, a book in one hand, with the other curled around Blair's waist. Eleanor had never seen a look of such peace and contentment on her daughter's face as it rested against Chuck's chest. Chuck had a look of profound concentration on his face, staring at the book as if his life depended on it. Eleanor doubted that he was aware that his hand was stroking Blair's back.

"Victory is mine," Chuck suddenly exclaimed, rousing Blair. "I've found it. I'm the king of the Dewey Decimal System."

"You are not _still_ on about that are you?" she asked fondly, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his jaw line.

"This from the woman who kept me up until four a.m. going through _Paradise Lost_ to find out how the angel was able to "eat a great feast" in Eden when they're not meant to have proper bodies."

"It was bugging me," Blair shrugged.

"And this was bugging me," Chuck said smoothly. "I knew I'd read it somewhere. It was at the tip of my tongue."

Eleanor watched as Chuck grabbed her hand and pulled her to the couch, with all the excitement of a little boy who cannot wait to hear a bedtime story. When they reached the couch, they settled in what must have been their "usual" position, with Blair's legs thrown over his lap and with her back supported by the armrest. Eleanor noticed how gentle he was with her injured leg, which she stubbornly hobbled around on at home. Any excuse to pick her up to lighten the weight upon her leg, he would take. And now, with his preternatural understanding of Blair's body, he settled it over him in the most comfortable position he could find, although Eleanor suspected that it was a terrific burden on his own legs.

"I was trying to find the words, you know?" Chuck said, almost shyly. "When I read them, it just reminded me of Victrola. I read them and I was back there – that night – when you danced for me." Blair reached out her hand and stroked the back of his neck at the recollection. "But for the life of me I couldn't remember where I read it."

"_Love in the Time of Cholera?_" Blair asked, reading the cover. "Read it to me?"

As he read the passage, Eleanor was struck by the queer thought that perhaps these words were Chuck's own, even though she knew Marquez well – had studied him in college.

"To him she seemed so beautiful, so seductive, so different from ordinary people, that he could not understand why no one was as disturbed as he by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones, why no one else's heart was wild with the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils, why everyone did not go mad with the movements of her braid, the flight of her hands, the gold of her laughter. He had not missed a single one of her gestures, not one of the indications of her character, but he did not dare approach her for fear of destroying the spell_." He looked at her with those dark, hooded eyes of his. _

_Blair seemed to have frozen, looking more like a China doll than ever before. He leant closer to her, his hand reaching behind her back, so that his arm was supporting her rather than the arm of the chair. Kissing her on the mouth, he lifted her chin with his finger, letting the book fall behind the couch. "I never quite knew how to describe it until I read that."_

_Eleanor decided to give them their privacy, as Blair's senses awakened and she moved in to kiss him with more fervour. She pondered that scene, though, long into the night. Perhaps until that night at Victrola, Chuck had simply lacked any emotion deep enough to warrant writing about. Now that he had wrapped his hands around something real and terrifying, he found that he lacked the words to express his emotions. And so he turned to those great masters who were able to say the miraculous with a simple arrangements of words that Chuck hadn't known what to do with. _

"_How do I look?" Blair asked, shaking Eleanor from her reverie. _

"I find you magnificent," Eleanor said softly.[4] Blair shot her a puzzled look, knowing that Eleanor was not one for inordinate praise – mistrusting the extent of the compliment. The strength of her reaction to seeing Blair in the long dress with her proud and fierce little face and the elegant diamond earrings her father had given her as a gift, surprised even Eleanor. She knew that she was overreacting – she was being an emotional, foolish old woman. But for a moment she couldn't find the words to express her pride in her daughter.

"Mum? Are you okay?"

Eleanor swallowed. "It's just…you – what you are, how you behave, the way you are with Charles, even," Eleanor explained.

"What's brought this on?" Blair asked uncertainly.

Eleanor shrugged helplessly, her eyes brimming. "Harold told me about what you said to him in the hospital. About this being who you are, and that he could get to know that person or not. That it was his choice, because you weren't changing."

"Was Daddy very angry with me?" Blair asked regretfully.

"No," Eleanor shook her head. "Proud, I think. But – I just wanted to say. If this is who you are, then every inch of it makes me proud of you."

Blair crossed her arms. For so long she had sought the approval that now came from Eleanor's lips, but now that it was upon her she found herself distrusting every inch of it. "Why is that?"

Eleanor knew, when she started upon this line of expression that she would not get off easily with Blair. "Because you're brave. You grab hold of what you want – and I know people like Harold who are of a kinder mould find that terrifying, but I find it somewhat…" Eleanor searched for the appropriate word, remembering for an instant the _Gossip Girl _site that she and Harold had pored over one night. "Regal. You are regal."

She looked so very young at Eleanor's words: the bruised look of a child who wants to bury her face in the side of a soft toy. The sort of look that needs protection, and just to see it again warmed Eleanor's heart. Because it told her that all this time she had spent taking the measure of herself, building an empire – all the time that equated to lost time with Blair may not amount to something insurmountable. Although soon enough this vulnerable look would be replaced by a cooler one, with the hint of a smirk she had learnt from Chuck, for the moment Eleanor loved seeing that Blair was not too grown up for her.

"If I've been distracted for the last…"

"Decade?" Blair asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Something like that," Eleanor grimaced. "It was never because of you. I never doubted the woman you were becoming. I just…doubted the woman I was. But, somehow, even without my paying attention you've turned into someone truly amazing."

As had become her habit, Blair tapped her injured leg on the ground, still trying to physically distance herself from the boot that would help her heal, but which offended her aesthetic so deeply. "I don't feel very amazing."

"I find you amazing," Eleanor assured her, the finishing touches on her prom dress completed. "Because you love in a way that I have never been able to."

Both of them were relieved that there was no physical gesture accompanying this moment of emotional exposure; despite Blair's awesome physical affection with Chuck, she was generally a stand-offish sort, uncomfortable with hugging. And so, they looked at each other, without touching, without making any gesture. Two such proud and separate people, and yet Eleanor knew that they had never been closer than they were at this moment.

When Charles and Blair had collided, they couldn't have known the way their relationship would impact upon those around them. But as Eleanor helped Blair out of the dress and prepared to make those alterations necessary, Eleanor found herself in awe of those connections that had formed. And terrified by how easy it would have been to stay the same forever.

*

When morning came, the smell of waffles pervaded the loft and Chuck had the rather strange sensation of awaking to the sound of laughter.

The surrealism of the scene didn't fail to strike Chuck as he made his way through the Humphrey loft, feeling as if he stood on the other side of the fourth wall, undetected by the actors who played Dan, Jenny and Vanessa. Even as they waved in greeting and he offered them terse smiles in response, he was convinced that he was invisible to them. The sound of a family enjoying each other's company was not something he could understand. Even though Lily and Bart had attempted a reasonable facsimile, with their lavish breakfasts, Chuck had never quite felt at ease with Bart's steely eyes and Lily's near-hysterical attempt at normalcy. Not to mention the fact that since Serena's return, she had seemed to forget every moment of friendship that they had enjoyed over the course of a decade, so full revulsion for her old self.

He didn't quite know how to enter the scene, although Dan kicked a chair out for him and Vanessa handed him a section of the newspaper. Jenny seemed to find something about his hair entirely too amusing, and Rufus put a plate of waffles in front of him as he sat stock-still, with a sense of palpable discomfort.

"Chuck," Vanessa said, not for the first time, judging by the frustrated tone of her voice. "Thoughts on going to the movies? A yes – a no?"

Chuck tried to focus on what she was saying as the smell of waffles turned his stomach.

"Chuck's feeling a bit fragile this morning," Dan grinned, his mouth full. "Let no one say that alcohol abuse does not come with sacrifices."

Chuck finally comprehended the question. "What exactly do you propose I wear?" he said grouchily, needlessly sniffing the orange juice that Jenny had poured for him.

"You can borrow something of Dan's," Vanessa chirped.

Both Chuck and Dan gaped at her.

"What?" she continued, grinning to herself at the image of Chuck in Cheap Mondays and a Smiths t-shirt. "It's the perfect solution. Then all you need is a shower and you're ready to rock."

"Ready to…_rock?_" Chuck asked incredulously. "We're just making up verbs now?"

"I think it's a good idea," Rufus called from the kitchen.

"Great," Chuck muttered. "Because we were all waiting for you to weigh in, Rufus."

Perhaps it was the fact that Chuck had never before used his first name, but Rufus let out a delighted bark of laughter, as if he had never heard anything as amusing and charming as Chuck's snarkiness in the morning. It was almost imperceptible: the slow process towards intimacy that Chuck had made with the Humphrey family. It was almost possible to forget the role that Rufus and Lily's relationship had played in the undoing of Bart Bass. And now in the sobering light of morning, in view of the truth, which had turned viral on the internet and through the newsagencies of the country, the mistakes of the past seemed to be a distant thing. No more than a measure of what had once passed than a decisive factor in the present. Almost unwillingly, Chuck reached out for one of the magazines and newspapers that were stacked haphazardly on the dining room table and pulled a copy of _New York Magazine_ towards himself, taking a less distrustful sip of the orange juice.

"Vanessa's right," Dan said diplomatically, flipping through _The New Yorker_. "It'll give you some time to be incognito."

"Then I can give myself some time to be decontaminated when I go back to the island," Chuck muttered.

It was a hopeless fight; the combined pressure of Vanessa, Rufus and Dan, compounded by the pressing reality that he had nowhere else to be sunk in and Chuck found himself being given a towel and some clothes, before being pointed in the direction of the bathroom.

It was the first time he had been alone since he had attempted to do some lasting damage to his liver, and for a while Chuck stared at himself in the mirror that had been fogged up by the steam of the shower he had yet to set foot into.

So this had been the place that Nate had fled to when he and Chuck had fought and he had found himself with nowhere to go. For the first time, Chuck didn't blame him for wanting to come here. At that time in Chuck's life, he had been all but toxic – even Blair hadn't wanted to come near him. _Friendless, girlfriendless, even your own father expects the worst of you._ The shower was warm, the water pressure strong, and Chuck felt the night's disappointments wash off him.

Chuck had never felt less-than. He had recoiled from any act that may be construed as stooping. Better to be considered a wretch and rule the dark spaces, then to be considered less than among the righteous. But, now, as he turned on the crass radio that hung on the wall of the bathroom, listening to a song he had never heard before – and hearing outside the door the hum of conversation as Rufus caught up with his children – Chuck was overcome by a sense of his own inadequacy. Rufus and Dan were right; he didn't know the first thing about showing love. He had never sat at a dining room table and been accepted unconditionally.

He grimaced as he pulled on the jeans and t-shirt that Vanessa had thrust in his hands. He knew that she had chosen the clothes as a strange sort of joke, and pulling them on, he knew that he would never be comfortable in this costume. They were a child's clothes, and Chuck had finally come to accept that no amount of play-acting would give him the childhood he had missed.

But perhaps, it would be possible to have the future he had never allowed himself to dream of. Pulling open the bathroom door, rolling his eyes as Jenny fell about laughing at him, and watching as Dan ran around the loft looking for his wallet, his keys, and at one point his right shoe – he thought about that big and empty house he had brought for Blair. He wandered into the kitchen, where Rufus stacked dishes in the dishwasher, noticing the way that he had soaked the larger pans in steaming hot water with detergent in it. Had he been one inclined to blush, Chuck might have turned red at the memory of his own attempt to do the washing up, when he had thought that things were over between he and Blair.

Rufus glanced at him, and for a moment, Chuck felt a swoop of uncertainty about whether he would be welcome in this kitchen: whether he was an intruder. But Rufus' smile told him that there would be no sharp words and veiled intensions. He wouldn't even try to force Chuck to help him with the dishes (although he half-heartedly carried a coffee cup to the dishwasher and balanced it haphazardly on the top shelf).

"How's the hangover?" Rufus asked pleasantly.

"Not the worst I've had," Chuck shrugged.

Rufus took in his black t-shirt. "This is a new look for you."

"Last time I checked, looking unkempt wasn't a 'look'," Chuck glowered.

Rufus cocked his head to the side. "I don't know about that. But I think your clothes suit you better."

That threw Chuck: the idea that approval could be handed out so casually over dirty dishes. How lucky Dan Humphrey had been to grow up with this. With love handed out so freely. Although Chuck crossed his arms and avoided Rufus' eyes, a part of him wished for one insane moment that _he _had grown up in this messy loft. Of course, that would never happen.

"I'm thinking about keeping the house," Chuck said suddenly.

"That sounds like a good idea," Rufus said carefully, never quite certain as to how Chuck would react.

Chuck spread his long fingers on the countertop, considering something that Rufus couldn't see. "I never had a place of my own in the Hamptons," he explained, even though Rufus hadn't questioned his decision.

Rufus paused thoughtfully. "I always hated that feeling – it was always like that with Lily. I hated feeling like a guest. Never having anything in particular to offer an event."

Chuck would never understand the ease with which Rufus shared the intimate details of his emotional life. It was against every instinct Chuck had – convinced that in exposure lay weakness. But these secret that Rufus so easily handed out won him so much affection – they made him an indispensable fount of reassurance. They were his strength, Chuck realized.

"I could have people to stay," Chuck said flatly. "Your family could come and stay. If they wanted. In holidays. That is, if you're not all staying with Lily."

Rufus stiffened. "That seems unlikely."

Chuck considered Rufus' straight shoulders as he bent over the dishwasher – busying himself and avoiding Chuck's eyes.

"You find your way to compassion so easily," Chuck commented, achingly aware of his rumpled and dirty clothes, rolling his sleeves up his arm. "You find forgiveness for everyone except for one person."

"Some things are unforgivable," Rufus said simply.

"And some are," Chuck said, still staring at his hands.

"I appreciate what you're saying, Chuck," Rufus said dismissively. "But there are things you don't understand."

"Yes, it's all very complicated," Chuck drawled. "But just think about one thing. Lily was basically Dan's age when she found out she was pregnant. What would _you_ have told Dan to do with his future at stake?"

Rufus had frozen where he stood, remembering the words he had spoken to Dan when he had thought Serena was pregnant. Chuck couldn't have known about their intimate discussions at the time, but had once more displayed his exceptional ability to read people. For the life of him, Rufus could not think of one thing to say as a response.

"If you will excuse me," Chuck said after an interminable silence. "I have a film to watch."

*

"You look beautiful, B," Serena enthused as they stood outside the grand Carlyle hotel where prom would be held. "I'm so glad you came."

Blair grunted, tugging at the top of her beautiful dress. She had hoped that at the last moment, Chuck would appear from nowhere, ready to accompany her to this evening, the last High School milestone before graduation. She had taken off her orthopaedic boot, somewhat glad to see that she could do so with little pain. Bowing to her father's wishes, she had worn flats for the occasion, feeling so small and invisible next to Nate and Serena, who sparkled even out here on the street.

"It wouldn't have been the same without you," Nate smiled, achingly handsome in his tuxedo. "You owe me the dance you made me practice every weekend when we were fifteen."

Blair appreciated their attempts at rallying her, but she realized only when they had arrived at the beautiful hotel that no amount of bravado could change the fact that without Chuck by her side, the night was to some extent already spoilt. She would march in, do the rounds, show those classmates of hers that no one condescended to Chuck Bass and Blair Waldorf. Perhaps it would be possible to escape before the after-party, Blair mused. She should have asked Dan and Vanessa if they were coming; surely Dan would lose interest in the event long before the night ended. Serena and Nate, both so well-liked by their classmates, would undoubtedly be monopolized until the last moments of the dance.

"Let's get this over with," Blair sighed, eyeing the steps that led to the entrance. She could already feel the lights upon her.

"Do you need help?" Nate asked anxiously.

"I'm not an invalid," she snapped, before smiling apologetically. "Besides. You should enter with your beautiful date."

Nate held her eyes for a moment, trying to convey how thankful he was for the way she had embraced his burgeoning relationship with Serena – trying to convey how glad he was that he had met her. It seemed as if Blair understood, because her stony expression softened, and she gestured for Nate and Serena to lead the way.

It was not until she was at the top of the stairs, with the lights on her face and the cacophony meeting her ears that it suddenly occurred to her that she couldn't do this, couldn't face them by herself. Serena and Nate would understand, surely, if she turned around and departed from this place – from the past.

Blair was about to do just that when she felt a hand clasp her own.

It was Chuck.

She couldn't quite articulate how it felt to see him next to her, a moment before she lost her nerve. She saw that his bow-tie was the same shade as her dress and he had slipped a corsage onto the hand he still clasped. Without breaking eye contact with her, he lifted that hand and pressed it to his lips.

"I didn't think you'd come," Blair said softly.

"I had to," Chuck responded simply. "I couldn't let you do this alone."

"I would have managed," she said fiercely, embarrassed by how close she had been to fleeing.

"I know," he responded, before looking her up and down. "But I didn't want to miss it. I've never seen you look more beautiful, you know."

And just like that, she was beautiful and powerful once more. The lights upon her skin were no longer threatening; they were made to accentuate her pale skin and Chuck's dark eyes. She was overcome by the need to make sure that everything was right between them – that the evening wasn't merely a dutiful attempt to placate her. Pressing her hand to his cheek, Blair gave him a searing kiss on the lips. "I love you, Chuck," Blair said suddenly. "I'm so sorry for hurting you."

He glanced down, before regarding her through his eyelashes. "I'm going to keep the house."

"Good. I want you to keep it. I just don't want you to use it to keep me."

"And maybe in the future?" he prompted, remembering the words she had said the night before.

"Maybe in the future it can be _our_ house," she said nervously, always uncertain, even in the face of his extravagance, or whether she was saying too much – aware that they were standing on the threshold of their final High School event. And aware that for the moment there was only the two of them.

"Blair," he said, looking down at their joined hands. "I should have said something else when I gave you those keys. I never imagined that I would be capable of feeling for someone what I feel for you. I know that you think I brought that house to trap you – no, it's okay, I suppose in a way I did – but what I wanted was to give you what give me."

"And what's that?"

He inhaled the scent of her, ran his hands over the soft skin of her shoulders. "An Innisfree. Because you're that place for me."

"Oh Chuck," she said with a sad smile. "How can you not see that _you_ are that place for me? I don't need a dream version of the future. I just need you. Now. This moment."

He swallowed, feeling suddenly very sensitive to the swell of music as the door opened and some of their classmates stumbled outside for a breath of fresh air. Although the two boys and the girl glanced in their direction, none of them said a word, not wanting to raise the ire of Chuck Bass or provoke Blair Waldorf. They were still feared, then. That was something. But for the moment, all Chuck cared about was what was going to happen between Blair and him. "And what about what comes next?"

Blair felt a smile come over her face. She knew it had been her who had put these thoughts into his head: this doubt about the future. For some reason those fears seemed to have receded, replaced by a quiet certainty that somehow things would turn out alright. Perhaps it was because he had appeared in the nick of time, or perhaps it was because they hadn't let go of each other since his arrival. Whatever the reason, Blair suspected that tonight she would say the right thing.

"Well. What's next is what comes next," she said flippantly, before sobering. "And I can't let you make it all about me and my dreams and the dreams I haven't even had yet. Your whole life has been about other people, Chuck. It's always other people that try to control you or take away your choices. But I won't do that. I want to be a part of your life. And the only way we can make this work is by making sure that we help each other take flight, not hold each other in one place."

Chuck wondered at her ability to articulate exactly what he had been thinking but had eluded speech. And so he pulled her close to his chest, wanting her to hear his heart, wanting her to be as close as possible to him. "Maybe I'll throw a party there at the end of summer," he said contemplatively. "With the Humphreys and the Van Der Woodsens and Nate and Vanessa? What do you think?"

"I think that sounds like a great idea," Blair grinned. "Or the worst idea of all time, depending on whether or not they all kill each other. And maybe afterwards we can christen the pool-house."

"This is my first house, Blair," Chuck responded with a smirk. "We're christening every room of that fucking place."

"That sounds perfect," she whispered, before clasping his hand and stepping through the doors, into the light.

*

They had gone to the after-party, drawn in by Serena's drunken enthusiasm and Nate's strangely emotional determination that they must pass the night together. "After all, it might be our last," he said soberly.

"I haven't been able to shake you for the last decade," Chuck murmured, his lips already on Blair's neck. "I doubt that I'll be able to shake you in the next decade."

Eventually, though, it had been Dan (who had surprisingly come to the prom – in a tuxedo that that – spurred by Vanessa's opinion that he needed to gain some kind of high school closure) who had convinced Chuck to press on. There was a strange sort of cease-fire in place between the new couples, all of whom seemed to have come to terms with the mistakes of the past, at least for an evening. Although, as Vanessa had intimated to Blair in the bathroom, she doubted that she, Dan, Nate and Serena would be going on double-dates any time soon.

"You don't want your legacy as the party king of St Jude's to be forgotten, do you?" Dan smirked as Chuck wavered between leaving the party early and pressing on into the wee hours.

That had decided it. Blair couldn't help but be taken away by the festive spirit, as Chuck determined that he would take over the after-party festivities. It was a celebration arranged on the fly, but after a few telephone calls, Chuck had managed to clear out half of Victrola and had lined up some rather impressive pyrotechnics for their arrival. The drinks were, of course, on him. Blair suspected that he was revelling in the feeling of having those same classmates who snickered at him in the hallways after the _Times_ article begging him to put their names on the door at Victrola.

For her part, Blair relished the feeling of Chuck returning to his position as the centre of attention – one that he had relinquished for so long during his darker days when Bart had died. It was also reassuring to see that her own role was never in question; Chuck managed not only to play the consummate host, but also to keep her pressed closely to his side, plying her with champagne and whispering delicious things in her ear.

It was as if, just for a night, the Victrola she had danced in had come to life once more. And even though there were more people allowed in the VIP area this time (the honour going to Serena, Nate, Vanessa and Dan), Blair felt the same butterflies she had that night so long ago when she had shed her skin for his entertainment.

"So you _actually_ stripped," Nate said for the umpteenth time.

"I had a slip on," Blair protested, as Chuck's tongue traced the shell of her ear and her eyes rolled back into her head. "It wasn't as if I was a character in _Showgirls_."

"And there were other people in the room," Nate clarified.

"You act like you haven't _personally_ walked in on these two going at it," Serena protested with a grin. "Blair stripping in a speakeasy wouldn't even crack a three on the scaling system."

Nate glanced over at Chuck and Blair, who were now all but horizontal. "I think I miss prudish Blair," he said forlornly.

Blair knew that she and Chuck were making spectacles of themselves, but for the life of her she couldn't must the energy to care. It had been so long since she had been in a physical condition allowing for this sort of overt sexuality, that she couldn't help but be taken away by the feel of Chuck's hands on her skin and his lips on hers. That old frenzy was upon her: that physical connexion that never faltered, even when their minds were locked in battle.

She was aware, as she straddled Chuck's lap and continued kissing him in a hip-grinding, thoroughly impolite way, that she was sickening her friends – and that in the morning _Gossip Girl_ would display the pictures of the two of them together – but she couldn't find the energy to care.

All that mattered, as they stumbled out of the club, with Chuck shouting that the limo was taken and that the others would have to find their own way home, was that tonight, for the first time in so long, they would finally be able to act upon this frenzied need to be closer-closer-closer.

"We live in the _same house_," Serena called as Nate gave him the finger. "You're the worst brother ever."

"Duly noted, Sis," Chuck called back. "But the limo is still taken. Unless you want to carry some kind of video-recording device."

They left Serena spluttering with disgust and Dan keeling over with laughter. Blair idly wondered how that dysfunctional foursome would manage to get themselves home, but for the most part she couldn't care less as Chuck climbed into the limousine after her, smiling when her hands ripped at his shirt and undid his bowtie.

"I've missed this so much," she said breathlessly, as he rid her of her dress. "It's been so long."

Chuck paused for a moment, running his hands over her exposed thighs. For some reason, her statement had set in motion a series of recollections, and he was searching in his mind for the last time she had spoken that way. When it dawned on him, he smirked at her. "If you thought that was long," he whispered. "Then you have no idea what you're in for."

*

If there was one negative aspect of Chuck's influence upon Blair, it was his propensity to rid her of her anally retentive streak.

For the last three days, since the night of prom had marked their rediscovery of the physical passion of their relationship, Chuck and Blair had set up camp in Chuck's bedroom, scarcely leaving the room, save for food and hydration. The unfortunate side effect was that she had completely neglected her social and familial obligations since prom.

The morning after prom night, Eric had stumbled, ashen faced, into Serena's room to inform her that he had unwittingly stumbled into a Level Eight when he went into Chuck's bedroom looking for a comb.

"How many honeymoon periods can one couple have?" Serena rolled her eyes.

"They're nymphos," Eric said, still shaky from what he had witnessed. "It's sick."

"It's Chuck and Blair," Serena shrugged.

Since then, in order to avoid more scarring of Eric, the Scandal Scale had been resurrected – with a bemused Nate being initiated into the code that represented what sexual act Chuck and Blair were engaged in.

"You know," Nate mused, when Serena complained about her house-mate's inability to keep their hands off each other. "Blair was never like that with me."

"I think it's different with the love of your life," she mused, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I mean, even Chuck showed slightly more modesty before he got together with Blair."

"Just barely," Nate muttered.

Of course, when Chuck awoke on the morning of graduation, and had seen the tension in Blair's shoulders and the way she hunched over the speech she hadn't let him read, he knew that it fell to him to give her some much needed "stress-relief". And so he had. Twice.

The by-product was that both of them were running horribly late. Blair had thrown both her shoes at him, damning him thrice to hell, searching for the clothes she had discarded days ago, babbling about how she had to return home to find some decent clothes. Chuck had chosen that moment to climb out of bed completely naked, ostensibly to help her look for her discarded dress. At the sight of him, Blair had suggested that they forget about graduation altogether, before initiating a bit of "stress-relief" herself.

After that they were running horrendously late. Chuck had given her his limo, assuring her that her speech would be brilliant and asking once more why she didn't just deliver it in her underwear and stay with him for the rest of the morning.

"Very becoming of a valedictorian," Blair rolled her eyes before frowning. "_Joint_-valedictorian."

"You'll blow the walls off the place," Chuck smirked. "Nelly won't know what hit her."

By some astounding twist of fate, Chuck had found himself getting to school with time to spare. Wandering around the courtyard of St Jude's, escaping Lily and her digital camera, Chuck took a moment to consider whether he'd miss this place. It would be the last time he entered these gates as a student. Although, truth be told, he had rarely entered them, caring not a jot for those facts and figures that characterised an education. He had discovered the thrill of knowledge so late, it seemed as if there would never be enough time to learn it all.

Regarding the sandstone of the courtyard, Chuck felt a swoop of regret that he had never taken the time to truly use his brain. Of course, he mused, exchanging a meaningful look with Blair, who was surrounded by her parents, posing with each of them in her robes, with her gold tassel – not every moment spent in this place had been a waste.

Chuck and Blair had already had their picture taken by Eleanor and Lily. At the last moment, Chuck had bashfully pulled out a digital camera (the first he had ever owned) and asked Lily to take a photograph for his own collection.

"Trying to make some memories?" Blair whispered as Chuck's arms wrapped around her and Lily took photo after photo.

"Yes," Chuck smirked, before lifting her off her feet and spinning her around, while a delighted Lily recorded every moment. "Perhaps we could continue taking some…happy snaps…tonight? In honour of my new interest in photography, of course."

Blair raised an eyebrow, grinning at him. "Just promise me you never get into a film-making phase." Chuck had made a mental note to investigate purchasing a video camera, his mind ticking over with activities they could perform with _that_ toy.

He would be lying, though, if he claimed that every moment at St Jude's had been pleasant. For the most part, he associated his schooling with a desire to be elsewhere. He had floated through high school avoiding any attachment, rejecting anything that might be considered heavy – unless pharmaceutical.

"Mr. Bass," called a familiar voice, coming up behind him. "You seem lost in thought."

Chuck offered Dwight a genuine smile, gesturing at the school. "I was reminiscing."

Dwight followed the sweeping arch of Chuck's gesture. "About your time at St Jude's?"

"More about the time I spent avoiding St Jude's," he grimaced.

"You'll make up for lost time," the old man smiled. "You know, I find these graduation ceremonies so tiresome. I hope that your Blair keeps us entertained with her speech."

"She'll be amazing," he said simply.

"Very good," Dwight said, looking around almost nervously. "Would you like to have a quick drink in my office?"

Chuck glanced at Blair, still surrounded by loved ones, and decided that no one would notice if he quickly ducked off for a drink with his mentor. "Lead the way," he said with a smirk.

Dwight didn't speak as he led Chuck to the room where Chuck had first discovered books and the worlds that each one contained. When he entered Dwight's study, however, Chuck took a moment to process the boxes and the gaping holes where the books had once been housed. It seemed that his classmates were not the only ones in the process of moving on.

"I like what you've done with the place," Chuck commented, running his finger over the spines of those beloved books that now sat unhappily in boxes. He smiled when he saw the book by Lord Byron, which had inspired his own confession of love to Blair.

"Yes, yes," Dwight said quickly, handing him a scotch. "Well, things change, Chuck. Time marches on."

"True," Chuck said uncertainly. It hadn't been his imagination; Dwight was nervous. As was his habit, in the face of nervousness, Chuck sat as still as possible, adopting a cool and confident expression, smirking knowingly. There was clearly something that Dwight wanted to say.

"You've had a hell of a time, Chuck," Dwight commented, sipping his drink too quickly and grimacing at the burning taste of the scotch. "I'm sorry I haven't taken the time to express my sympathy for the unceremonious way the story was broken. And the way they called Blair – trying to blindside her. It's just disgraceful."

Chuck shrugged. "It's reality."

"True," Dwight nodded. "That's a good way of looking at it. You can't begrudge the hoi polloi's interest in you, can you? I mean, yours is a public family. And with the intrigue surrounding your birth…well, it has always been this way with public men, hasn't it? Those who stand astride us have always been the subjects of public scrutiny. It is the burden that comes with the choice to be great."

"I suppose that's true of people who choose," Chuck said with a frown. "But, of course, I made no _decision_ to be born into the family."

"Yes, of course. Of course," Dwight muttered, turning to face the emptying bookcase.

In the silence that followed, something occurred to Chuck – something that made his veins contract slightly and his stomach tighten. "How did you know about Blair?" he asked quietly.

Dwight cast him a puzzled look. "You came here and told me about her…remember? I told you about Byron…"

"No," Chuck waved his hand, putting his scotch down. "I mean, how did you know that Attenborough called Blair?"

It had been bothering him ever since the article was published; how had the journalist known whom to call? He had told himself that it was Jack, but a part of him hadn't been able to believe that his father would be so callous as to throw Blair's name to the vultures. Not to mention the way in which he had sequestered her telephone number. Outside of her friends and family, who had her personal telephone number?

It was such a slow dawning realization that Chuck could have lived it over again to finest detail. First, he cast a glance at the old filing cabinets that stood in the corner of Dwight's room. Blair was always actively involved in school events; it would be a simple thing to get hold of her mobile phone number through Constance's records. But, Chuck doubted that Attenborough would have been able to simply access the private files of the students. He would have needed an informant – someone who knew Chuck, who knew about Blair and how important she was to him.

Jack's betrayal had stung, but Chuck had seen that coming. This betrayal was different; this man had been the first person to show Chuck that there was more to his soul than one endless, drunken night. This man had told Chuck to shout out his love to the universe, and when he had needed words, Dwight had supplied them. Had there been some measure of plan in place even then? Had Dwight sensed an opportunity when he had invited Chuck into his inner-sanctum? Or had this deception come slowly? A recent temptation, perhaps.

"Are you by any chance an acquaintance of Noah Shapiro of the _Paris Review_?" Chuck asked bitterly.

"You have to understand, Chuck," Dwight said quietly. "There are certain things that transcend personal relationships. I'm an historian. I'm a _business_ historian. And the news that Bart Bass built his empire upon murder and deceit. How could I have passed up the opportunity to write about it?"

"You could have summoned some integrity," Chuck said, his voice shaking slightly. "Dan Humphrey did. When he was seventeen years old, I might add."

Dwight spread his hands wide, as if it had been out of his control. "I want you to know, Chuck, that this doesn't change anything. I can see greatness in you."

"No, you saw a great story in me," Chuck spat. "And this changes _everything._" He paused for a moment, before turning to the side – attempting to hide the extent to which Dwight had hurt him. Staring at the barren bookcase, Chuck felt anger boil within him, but it was tempered by a towering sense of disappointment. "I suppose you'll write a book about it? I know how you love books. 'More thought goes into them then goes into most children' – isn't that what you said? It was certainly true of me."

He turned to face Dwight, noticing the way the old man's arms had crossed. He looked suddenly so old and slightly pathetic. Chuck realized with a lurch that Dwight was _scared_. He scared this man. Or perhaps it was Dwight's own decisions that scared him – he who had made a livelihood out of studying the decisions of others. To stay here would be too painful, and even though he had more questions to ask, Chuck found suddenly that the walls were pressing upon him, and he had to leave this room. Blair would be making her speech soon.

"What are you going to do, Chuck?" Dwight called after him, as he made his way to the exit.

Chuck looked over his shoulder at the man who had come closest to being a father to him. Three for three, Chuck mused, thinking of Bart, Jack and Dwight. He really had the sorriest father figures. He realized now that Dwight must have imagined that Chuck would give him forgiveness. Perhaps he had even imagined that Chuck would offer to go on his book tour! Was there no one in this cruel and wide world who wasn't a weak and slimy thing inside?

"Write your article," Chuck said in a dangerous and low voice. "But if you so much as mention my name, or say one word about Blair and the Van Der Woodsens – any of my friends and their families. I will unleash hell."

*

The passage from the half-forgotten space of Dwight's study to the packed assembly hall passed almost unnoticed by Chuck as he made his way surreptitiously through the crowd to his seat. He had missed Dan's speech, and Nelly Yuki was almost finished with her dull tribute to volunteerism. Chuck saw Blair crane her neck anxiously, relaxing only when her eyes fell on him in his rightful seat – right in the front row, by virtue of his position in the alphabet.

"Where have you been, man?" Nate whispered from his seat next to Chuck's. "If you wanted to have a sneaky joint I would have joined you."

Even though his pulse was pounding in his ears, Chuck found it in himself to smile at Blair as she took over the podium. He mused that Nelly Yuki had not stood a chance; the ease with which she took control of the room. So utterly at ease – so achingly beautiful – Chuck felt the lingering feeling of betrayal leave him as his attention was captured entirely by Blair as she greeted her classmates, teachers and parents. And then her eyes fell on Chuck. He felt a strange sensation pass over his body at the sight of her eyes meeting his. It took him a moment to hear what she was saying.

"I searched my mind for some way to sum up my experience of Constance and the years that I have passed as your student or your classmate. And again and again I find myself failing to find a way to put into words what I have learnt here. Because although I hope that I have filled my mind with something that will last, I am struck today by the impact we have had upon each other.

"When I was last in Spain, I passed a quiet afternoon in the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum. I remember standing in front of some work of cubism, having read everything there was to read on the movement, and feeling completely unmoved. Until I read a little plaque that sat next to some work by Kupka. The words have always stayed with me:

"_Within our inner visions, fragments of objects float before our eyes. In order to try and capture these garments, we unconsciously draw lies between them. And when we have built up a network of relationships, we achieve a coherent unity_."

Blair paused, tearing her eyes away from Chuck's, taking in the entire crowd as they leant forward in their seats, drawn to the strength of her voice and her bearing on the stage. Chuck felt as if they were finally seeing what he saw: someone so different to those lacklustre people who dared to walk next to her. He scarcely noticed his knuckles turn white as they clutched the base of the wooden pew.

"Because that's what learning is, really. Just a series of discrete facts, events, and people, wavering in our vision. Yet the motto for Constance and St Jude's is the Latin word 'substantia' – substance, or essence. So I find myself wondering how we form coherent unities over the course of our schooling. And the answer comes to me: we find it in the relationships that form around us."

Blair's eyes once more fell upon Chuck's. Without breaking the contact, she placed her index cards on the podium. "So I want to take this opportunity to thank you for helping me become something substantial. And I want to assure you that no matter how far the distance between us, no matter how difficult the road that lies before us becomes, nothing will undo you, to me. Not because you've changed me, but because having you collide into my life showed me where my edges were."

She had addressed it to all of them, of course, and Chuck noticed idly that a few of her classmates were dabbing their eyes, moved by her words. But those who really _knew_ her, knew that she was addressing her words to a much smaller audience.

Chuck and Blair looked at each other, with eyes made wide by wisdom and heartbreak, mutely sharing an infinite vision of the future. For a moment, in the silence that passed, as the audience wavered between mute wonder and applause, Chuck could have sworn that he and Blair discovered secretly in the motionless air of the auditorium, a joining of their destinies and their longings, of their dreams and their enchantments.[5]

The spell was broken only by the sound of Blair ending her speech and the applause that raised from the audience to the exposed wooden beams of the roof.

It was only then that Chuck knew what he had to do.

*

After the graduation ceremony had concluded, he had returned to the Van Der Woodsen apartment to find both Eric and Serena sprawled in front of the television, with Eric almost vertical, staring at the screen upside down.

Since leaving the ceremony, Chuck had been propelled by a strange desire to take flight. When he arrived to see his adopted siblings enjoying a lazy afternoon, he found it suddenly impossible to articulate the loss he felt at the news that Dwight had been the one to betray his confidences. For a while, he stared at Serena and Eric, feeling a strange protectiveness unfurl its wings in his chest. He would do anything to protect them, he thought, even though at that moment he felt as if he were standing so far from them.

"Oh thank god," Serena rolled her eyes. "Chuck, help me convince Eric to stop watching _17 Again_ – for about the seventeenth time, I might add."

"In a minute," he snapped, even though a part of him longed to join the scene of aching normalcy and he felt a pang when he realized that Serena had tentatively cleared a space for him on the sofa. He said nothing, and made no attempt to join them. Eric merely shrugged; he was more inclined to accept Chuck's moodiness without question, but Chuck knew that Serena would not let it go. He needed to be alone, to make sense of the latest desertions in his life.

"I'm not the anomaly," Eric protested, upside now. "Everyone else in society agrees with my view of Zac Efron."

"Everyone in the tween demographic," Serena muttered, before turning her eyes to Chuck's retreating back, taking in his slumped shoulders. "Chuck – what's wrong?" He ignored her as he threw the door to his bedroom open and began haphazardly throwing his clothes into a suitcase. A few minutes of blessed solitude passed before another voice intruded upon him.

"Charles?" Lily asked in a soft voice. "Serena said you seemed upset."

Turning around, Chuck was struck once more by Lily's icy beauty. There was something regal and pure about her pose, even as she leaned against the doorframe in her white shirt and yellow glasses and watched him with concern. If there was one thing he could be proud about during the last few months, it was that he had played a role in piecing Lily back together. She couldn't have known it at the time, but in that instant, she had passed over that line in Chuck's heart: she had become one of the small hand-full of people who were under Chuck Bass's formidable protection.

"Are you going somewhere?"

He hadn't done a good enough job of protecting her, he decided, still watching her with his throat working. And now he would be leaving her alone again: he was leaving his family without the protection of his watchful eye. Perhaps he was being immature by reacting only with feeling – it seemed so real, though. This need to take flight and reconsider his life from a great distance. It was not like those many times he had run away from himself. Everything was clear to him – he could tease the edges of each heartbreak. This journey would be different to the others; this journey would not anaesthetise him.

Without even thinking about what he was doing, he stumbled over to Lily and kissed her on the cheek. Almost as soon as he made the clumsy gesture, he moved several feet backwards. Lily lifted a pale hand to her face, and just held it there as if she were holding on to the fleeting impression of his lips. As always in their relationship, she waited to take her cue from Chuck.

"I just wanted to thank you," he explained, avoiding her eyes.

"Charles," she smiled indulgently, using the low voice he had always imagined a mother would. "There is nothing that I've done that you have to thank me for."

"Well I'm thanking you anyway." There was a pause as he turned back to his suitcase. Lily knew that there was something else he needed to say; he cast surreptitious glances at her. Despite the swoop of guilt she had felt when she visited Jack Bass in that dark and foreboding office, giving him her approval to execute his plan to remove Chuck from the Bass Industries fold, she knew that she had made the right decision. Although, she also knew that she would be hiding from him for the rest of her life.

He fidgeted slightly with his ascot scarf. He sighed for no reason. She just waited. "Do you think…when I get back…would it be okay if I came back here?"

"There is always room for you here."

He nodded mutely.

"I don't suppose you want to tell me where you're going?" she asked, pressing her luck. He just settled her with a withering glare. They may have come to an accord, but he was still Chuck Bass. And Chuck Bass did not clear his itineraries. "You know, one day you're going to have to teach me how to glare like that. Just…text me when you land…if you have a chance. And maybe you could call? Only if you have the - "

He smiled ruefully. "I'll email you."

She made to leave the room, but something made her turn around to him. "Whatever it is – you'll figure it out, you know."

Chuck thought about those betrayals that came from the ether and those loyalties that formed without any notice. It seemed that while he wasn't looking, an entire world had been created. These connexions and departures that constituted a life; they now seemed so obvious and vital that Chuck wondered how he had functioned before: when he had been alone.

As the light above his head flashed red, urging him to do up his seatbelt, Chuck peeked out of the window to see that the Bass jet was penetrating the thick clouds that had sat so stubbornly overhead for the previous week. Soon enough, there was no point looking out of the small window; there was nothing out there but vapour.

It had only taken him a few hours after graduation to take flight. He thought about Lily's words, watching the world shrink below him.

"Where did you go?" Blair smiled as she entwined her fingers around his and his face jerked away from the window. "I lost you, there, for a second. In your thoughts."

He smiled at her, even though he felt a bit like crying. The losses that they had both endured this year were too much, really. And even while making their ascent to places unknown on this plane, he felt as if the exhausting journey had just finished.

"You didn't lose me. Not even for a second," he whispered.

She had known immediately that something was wrong, and had dragged him into a deserted classroom to find out what had transpired during the time he had missed of the graduation ceremony. He wasn't sure where to begin, so filled with bitter disappointment over Dwight and feeling as if there was an enemy laying in wait at every turn. For a while, in that deserted classroom, he just clutched her to his chest, listening to the sound of her breathing and to reassure himself that there was at least one space of truth in a life of damned lies.

When he pulled back to see Blair standing there, still in her robes, worrying her lip as she worried about _him_ – he did something that he had never done before, but had always suspected he might in the future.

He fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist. He always knew that one day he would prostrate himself this way: helpless before the Blair-idol.

She was scared. "Chuck – what?"

"Come away with me," he murmured into the fabric over her stomach.

She didn't even ask what this was about, and Chuck loved her for it. She just put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him on the lips. She didn't question his intentions; she didn't ask where they were going. She didn't even take a moment to make a cruel joke about Tuscany and the time he had left her on the helipad. He was falling to pieces at her feet, and she would follow him anywhere. They met at the helipad after his conversation with Lily. She hadn't even demanded that they go together.

When he had climbed out of his car to find her at the helipad, he wrapped his arms around her. "Were you worried I'd stand you up?"

It was these moments, when she looked into his eyes that they could form a secret world between the two of them. "Not even for a moment," she lied.

He had told her, during that first helicopter ride and as they boarded the jet, what had happened with Dwight. She had nodded seriously and listened to the whole story. But even after he had worn himself out with the retelling, she had just sat and thought, without really responding to him. Partly terrified that she would think him a dreadful coward, he decided not to draw out her response. She would speak when she was ready. She always did.

"It's not running away, you know," Blair said suddenly.

"What isn't?"

Her eyes were almost sparking with intensity. Chuck recognised the expression on her face; it was this fierce and hidden side of her that he had always found so erotic. It was the face she could have worn if she had commanded armies instead of schoolgirls. It was a face that knew that even though the world may never love her, it would certainly fear her. He loved her desperately for it. He wished that they weren't strapped into their seats, and that this had been a conversation had in bed.

"It's a strategic retreat," Blair said solemnly.

"I don't want to run Bass, Blair," Chuck said, almost apologetically. "I don't want to fight a dead man's battles – I want to choose a future for myself."

She waved her hand dismissively. "Who said anything about running Bass Industries? Jack's not even relevant. He's not who we're fighting against. We're not even fighting _Dwight_."

He smiled at her determined face and the way she spat out the name "Dwight" as if it were toxic. He smiled at the small line that formed between her eyebrows when she was plotting. He wanted to touch it, but he knew that if he drew her attention to it, then she would be embarrassed and strain to keep her forehead smooth at all times. He liked the expression too much to risk never seeing it again.

"Who, then?"

"We are fighting against anyone who tries to tell us who we are. We're fighting against anyone who wants to take our lives apart – against anyone who would presume to tell us what we can and cannot do – our enemies are the people who try to stop us from being who we are," Blair said furiously.

"So we're fighting against the world, I suppose," Chuck said tiredly, glancing out the window once more, to notice that the clouds were thinning.

"Fine, the world then," Blair said, running her hand over his face and drawing his eyes to hers. "I still like our chances."

"And why is that?"

She rolled her eyes as if he was dim. Lying back in the blue chair of the plane, she tried to settle her stomach as the aircraft made another sickening lurch through the atmosphere. "Because we're us."

Chuck smirked at her, even though she couldn't see him. He found, to his surprise, that he didn't particularly care whether those back in Manhattan thought that they had run him out of town. The only opinion that really mattered belonged to the woman strapped into a chair in his private plane, trying to convince herself that she wasn't as afraid of flying as she had always thought.

They may have been leaving the scene of a bitterly contested battle, their little group of friends might be on the brink of unravelling, and the sheer tonnage of people who disapproved of them may have been able to fill a container ship. But he didn't care, and he was fairly sure that Blair didn't either.

And so, for the time being, he would allow himself to simply exist – without battles in mind, without thought of quenching his unending thirst for revenge. They would regroup, and when they returned, they would blow the doors off buildings and bound over every obstacle. If for no other reason than they were Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck.

Something occurred to him. "Did you tell Serena we were leaving?" he asked suddenly, smiling when her cheeks flushed slightly.

"I thought I'd message her after a week or so…I owe her a couple of unannounced disappearances, after all."

"You're so sexy when you're vindictive," he said fondly.

She knew him well enough by now to know that he made these lecherous comments not to get a rise out of her, but because he didn't know how else to ask for the affection he needed. His lips would be aching with tenderness, but they still couldn't quite form the words to ask for some token of love. So, with a wicked smile, secretly aching for all that he had lost, Blair undid her seatbelt and, watching his eyes widen in surprise, straddled his lap, facing him.

"I love you, Chuck," she whispered before pressing her forehead to his.

He ran his hands over her thighs. "I love you too."

As she kissed his neck and hurriedly undid the buttons of his shirt, Chuck noticed that they had left the clouds below them. They were winging into the clear blue sky. Blair had reminded him of something, when she had been speaking of revenge. The quiet voice inside of him that suffered no insults – that defined his own identity grew in volume.

It would not be tolerated, he decided. Each of those bitter rivals, each of those stinging betrayals (he thought of Dwight): they would not be tolerated. He now had more than he had ever been able to hold. There was more to lose, certainly, but Chuck realized that there was also a lot more to win.

So much wasted time, he realized. He had spent years of his life recoiling from the heavier burdens of life: exulting in the light and insubstantial pleasures of a night on the town, of the respect of those St Jude's buffoons he had always secretly despised. When really, it was these so-called burdens – of love, of family – that had forced him to meet them: that had increased his strength.

"Waldorf," he whispered into her neck. "Do you think that maybe you would help me with something?"

She pulled back at his serious tone, only slightly reassured by the gentle pressure of his hands on her back. "Anything," she breathed.

"Help me learn how to walk again," he responded, his eyes shut tight. "And then - "

"Then?" she prompted.

"Then help me fight."

He opened his eyes to meet hers. It had always been this way between them: they entered these things with eyes open. They would never back out or claim that they had been hood-winked. It was a meeting of souls, more than eyes. And Chuck knew that they would be able to fix whatever was broken – that they would get back everything that they had lost. And then they would find more things to lose, if for no other reason than everything worth anything at all had to be fought for.

"_Yes_," she whispered. And with that single syllable, Chuck felt as if he was coming alive again. He smiled against her neck as he kissed her and hurried to shed her of her clothes, thanking Bart's ghost for the luxury of a private jet with comparative privacy.

They had to steal moments like this; even though the sky appeared clear, Chuck could sense a storm gaining speed. Blame some extra-sensory perception or his own propensity for mischief, Chuck always knew when trouble was brewing. But, it was enough that right now he was happy. Besides, he liked their chances as well; they were them.

The love he had for Blair Waldorf was the heaviest burden of them all, but it was also his most prized possession.

*

THE END

*

[1] _West Wing_ moment.

[2] Inspired by "Frost at Midnight" by S. T. Coleridge.

[3] Direct quote from Tanith Lee's "Magritte's Secret Agent".

[4] Quote from _Sex and the City_, courtesy of Jack Berger.

[5] This passage based upon John Le Carre's _The Naïve and Sentimental Lover_

A/N: Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. It means a great deal. Please add me to author alert if you want to stay tuned for the sequel.


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